Rise From the Ashes
by Flyerfly
Summary: Mulder, restless after being sent on another dead-end assignment, decides to take matters into his own hands and sets out in search of an X-File in Marfa, Texas.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Rise From the Ashes  
Author: Flyerfly  
Rating: R (language and some sexual innuendo)  
Category: MSR/UST  
Time Frame: Early S6, somewhere around Drive.  
Summary: Mulder, restless after being sent on   
another dead-end assignment, decides to take   
matters into his own hands and sets out in   
search of an X-File.  
  
Disclaimer: None of the regulars are mine.   
Those that aren't, are. But I don't care,   
C.C.. If you want them, you can have them.   
I'm not picky.  
  
*roll the credits*  
  
  
Interstate 30W  
9:45 A.M.  
  
"Mulder, did you hear what I said?" Dana   
Scully's voice sounded strangely muffled from   
behind the unfolded map in her hands. The   
only signs of her presence were the intense   
red hairs that emanated from atop the papers   
that dominated the passenger's side.   
  
"Mmm?" Mulder purred. Scully could tell he   
was deep in thought. Both of his hands were   
planted firmly on the steering wheel and his   
body frame was tight and severe. His gaze was   
steady, staring out through the windshield,   
and his gray-green eyes were alight with that   
intense excitement that always shone when he   
was in the midst of an investigation. Why was   
a matter of some debate, however. Scully,   
herself, could not see anything remotely   
interesting about being dragged off to inspect   
yet another supposed American-made terrorist   
attack. Ever since she and Mulder had been   
reassigned, they had been sifting through one   
big pile of shit after another. With the   
X-Files closed, she wondered if there   
was any reason at all to stay in the Bureau.   
It would be a hell of a lot easier to turn over   
her badge. They had been trying to get rid of   
them for years now. The terrorism work was   
absolutely punishment for their "insolence," of   
that she was sure. Sometimes it really wasn't   
worth it. She lowered the map and peered   
closely at his strong, handsome features,   
evidence of the strength he carried within   
himself. Other times…  
  
"I said that the exit towards San Antonio was   
back there towards the right," she folded the   
map and replaced it in the dashboard, "It's   
probably about a mile back now."   
  
Mulder smiled thoughtfully and took his eyes   
off of the stretch of thousands of straight,   
empty road in front of him. "I thought we'd   
take the scenic route, Scully," he said, and   
turned once more towards the highway, but not   
before Scully caught the playful gleam twinkle   
in his eyes.  
  
"Mulder," she reminded him, "we don't have time   
for the scenic route. We have to go investigate   
this potential terrorist. Kersh has been looking   
for any excuse to give us our walking papers, we   
can't give him any incentive. Side trips are   
just not in the itinerary."  
  
"Scully," Mulder reproached, "aren't you getting   
tired of sifting through feces? Just because Mrs.   
Kelly Horst in San Antonio purchases a large   
amount of fertilizer to facilitate the growth of   
her tree farm, it doesn't mean that she is   
necessarily about to generate the next Oklahoma   
City." He glanced at her, a boyish smirk apparent   
on his lips. "Besides," he said, "If there's a   
load of shit to dig up in these contiguous   
forty-eight states, then I'm pretty sure that most   
of the shoveling is occurring in the vicinity of   
Washington, D.C., not Texas."  
  
"Mulder…" she started, but he interrupted her with   
a wave of his hand.  
  
"Listen, Scully, we will absolutely, positively   
check out the sadistic tree farmer on the way back,   
okay? If not because it is our job, but simply to   
assuage any fear or concern that you might carry   
for the welfare of our fine nation."  
  
"On the way back?" she questioned, "Mulder, Kersh   
is not going to be happy."  
  
"Don't you think that he'd be more concerned about   
the monetary expenditure required in finding the   
next exit miles down the line, turning the vehicle   
around, traveling back, and then heading off to   
San Antonio? I'm sure that he would agree that   
the most positive course of action would be to   
take a short cut."  
  
"Mulder," she huffed, cheeks reddening with a   
mixture of contention and ire, "these roads are   
completely straight. There are no shortcuts."  
  
"Scully, you'll never get to the top of the F.B.I.   
hierarchy with that attitude."  
  
Scully folded her arms across her chest and sat   
back in petulant, silent, defiance as Mulder   
hummed aloud to the car radio.  
  
US Highway 90  
12:49 P.M.  
  
Scully's arms were still folded when Mulder   
directed the silver Ford Taurus off the side of   
the road as it puttered away its dying breath and   
came to a sickly stop. Taking his right hand off   
the steering wheel, he paused long enough to look   
at his partner and command her, "Don't say a   
word." Then, he unbuckled his belt, opened the   
door, and swiftly jumped to his feet, happily   
stretching his aching muscles after having sat   
stationary for so long. As he plucked his cell   
phone from his pants pocket, he thought he heard   
her say something to the effect of, "Nice   
shortcut." Choosing not to grace her comment   
with a response, he turned around, phone to his   
ear, and gave her a stern look of disapproval.   
  
"Triple A, how can I help you?"  
  
"Hello. My name is Fox Mulder and I need some   
assistance. My car has broken down on US 90. I   
am located about 26 miles away from Alpine, Texas.   
Could you send someone out to pick me up?"  
  
"As soon as we possibly can, sir," the   
cheery-little-teenaged-operator chirped, "At the   
moment we have no one available on staff. I can   
have someone out in an hour or two."  
  
Mulder sighed to himself. His hazel eyes   
glistened as he contrived a plan. "Okay," he   
responded sweetly, "that's fine." He paused and   
then said, seemingly as an afterthought, "Oh, did   
I give you my name? It's Special Agent Fox   
Mulder," making sure to emphasize the "Special   
Agent."  
  
"Yes you did, sir," she answered, just as   
innocently, "It'll be an hour or two."  
  
"Thank you," he replied despondently. He turned   
the phone off and placed it back in his pocket.   
"Dumb bitch," he muttered as he walked back to   
the car, head facing the dirt and hands in his   
pockets. He glanced up, trying desperately not   
to meet the gaze of the woman with the hair as   
fiery as the gleam in her eyes.   
  
He opened the door and sat down, grabbing for the   
handle to push the seat back into a reclining   
position. He closed his eyes and placed his hands   
behind his head. "Don't say a word."  
  
2:42 P.M.  
  
"How did ya'll manage to find yourselves out here   
by your lonesome?" The cute woman with the long   
blonde hair smiled through ruby-red lips. Mulder   
was seated in the passenger's side of the   
tow-truck, grinning ear-to-ear.   
  
"I'm not alone now," he thought devilishly.   
  
"Well," he said, looking at the name on her   
standard-issue uniform, "Amber Lynn, I was out   
here working on a case for the government but I   
misjudged the distance from the road to the next   
rest-stop, and I guess I just ran out of gas."   
He shrugged his shoulders, still grinning.  
  
"Ya'll work for the federal gov'ment?" she asked,   
astonished, "Whatta you do?"  
  
"I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation,"   
he beamed, "Wanna see my badge?" He pulled the   
identification from his jacket and displayed his   
picture proudly.  
  
"Fox?" she said, "Your name is Fox?"  
  
He winced and nodded his head in affirmation.  
  
"Well," she said seductively, gazing into his   
eyes, "the name certainly fits."  
  
He was beaming with masculinity.   
  
"Maybe you could show me what there is to do   
around here for a little excitement," he cooed.  
  
"Do you wanna know what I like to do for   
excitement?" she asked.  
  
Mulder leaned in closer, but instead of   
sweet-nothings, all he received was an earful of   
hard knocks…literally. Mulder's body engaged in   
a full-body heave as he awoke from an   
uncomfortable sleep. The knocking came again,   
and Mulder, startled, beat his head unwittingly   
against the door.  
  
"Ow." He rubbed his head and opened his groggy   
eyes, adjusting them slowly to the intense light   
of day. Scully appeared first through his   
blurred vision, lying asleep in the passenger's   
side. He cracked his neck and looked towards the   
left, towards the direction from which the sounds   
were coming.  
  
"Amber Lynn?"  
  
He gazed out through the open window. Instead of   
a slender, beautiful, woman, his gaze was met by   
that of a heavy-set, middle-aged man glancing   
into the car.  
  
"Did somebody call for some roadside assistance?"  
  
3:08 P.M.  
  
"I guess that does it." Kenny, a  
balding, middle-aged Triple A worker jumped,   
albeit a little-awkwardly, to his feet after   
securing the last connection from the tow-truck   
to Mulder's rented Taurus. He hiked up his pants,   
covering the "handyman's crack" that had made an   
appearance when he crouched down. He dusted off   
his hands, informing the pair that, "We're all set   
to go."  
  
As Kenny climbed into the driver's seat, Mulder   
opened the passenger's door with his right hand   
and extended his left in a gesture of admittance.   
  
"After you, Scully."  
  
Scully glared at him as she climbed into the   
stuffy three-seater truck. Mulder followed suit,   
and soon the three were driving at a far-too   
leisurely pace down the highway.  
  
"So where ya'll from?" Kenny asked in a comedic   
southern accent that Mulder thought seemed   
slightly reminiscent of the buck-toothed vampire   
that held Scully's amorous affection.   
  
"Washington," Scully answered abruptly, putting   
a fist to her nose in an attempt to stifle the   
smell of sweat and grime that emanated from the   
auto-man's body.  
  
"Ah, Washington," Kenny responded dreamily,   
spitting a wad of tobacco out the window,   
"Beautiful state. Lovely place for a couple   
to settle down."  
  
"We're not together," Scully said insistently.  
  
"Is that a fact?" Kenny asked, arching his   
eyebrows and smiling widely.  
  
"Oh for Christ's sake," Scully moaned under her   
breath. Her hand moved to her forehead as she   
turned and glared at Mulder. "I'm going to get   
you for this," she mouthed to him. He shrugged   
his shoulders in response.  
  
"Washington, D.C.," Mulder explained.  
  
"What's that now?" Kenny asked.  
  
"We're from Washington, D.C.," Mulder repeated,   
"We're partners at the Federal Bureau of   
Investigation."  
  
"Sure 'nuf?" Kenny asked, surprised at   
encountering federal agents all the way off   
the beaten path, "I always wanted to be in the   
F.B.I. when I was a littlin. So what are ya'll   
doing out here? Investigatin'? Can I see your   
badge?"  
  
"We took a short cut," Scully told him bluntly.   
  
Mulder shot her a look of reproach, and pulled   
out his identification. "We're investigating a   
potential terrorist threat," Mulder answered.  
  
"Oh," Kenny said simply, gazing in awe at   
Mulder's picture. This was followed by an   
awkward silence.   
  
"Kenny," Scully finally said after some period   
of time, "do you think you could turn on the   
air-conditioning? It's a little stifling?" In   
reality, it wasn't the heat so much that   
bothered her, but the effect it had on Kenny's   
odor that was truly upsetting her.  
  
"Sorry, ma'am," he said, "but my   
air-conditionin' has been on the fritz ever   
since those lights done come to town."  
  
"Fabulous," Scully replied under her breath,   
once again placing her hand to her nose.  
  
"Lights?" Mulder asked, his interest piqued,   
"What lights?"  
  
"Well, it's the damndest thing…," Kenny started,   
and then said, "Nah, I can't tell you. You   
wouldn't believe me anyway."  
  
"No, no, go ahead," Mulder said, leaning forward,   
"You'd be surprised what I'd believe."  
  
"Okay, well, here goes." He adjusted his uniform,   
feeling important in such prestigious company.   
"A couple of nights ago, I was drivin' out on this   
very highway, fixin' to pick up some guy with a   
flat tire. About five miles out, I see these   
lights in the sky -white, blue, and orange- just   
dancin' around like a fox in a henhouse."  
  
Mulder urged him forward as Scully chuckled at   
Kenny's unknowing faux pas.   
  
"Well, my radio starts goin' all haywire and   
then all the power in the car goes completely   
dead. I keep watchin' the lights and they sorta   
stop in mid-flight. Then they start up again and   
hear this weird sound, like 'BAM!'. And then   
quick as a flash, they were gone. My truck   
finally started up a couple of minutes later. I   
went and made my pickup and then went back home.   
Ever since then, my radio and my air-conditionin'   
hasn't worked."  
  
Mulder sat back in deep thought. "Where did you   
see the lights?" he finally asked.   
  
"Back in the other direction, maybe about two   
miles outside of Marfa."  
  
"Turn around," Mulder commanded, "I want you to   
show me where you saw the lights."  
  
"But it's in the other direction, sir," Kenny   
informed him, "We'd be goin' in a direction   
opposite my shop."  
  
"Turn around," Mulder repeated.  
  
"Okay," Kenny agreed, as he proceeded to turn   
the car around.  
  
"What was that about monetary expenditure?"   
Scully asked.  
  
Mulder leaned in close to Scully. "Hey,   
Scully," he whispered in her ear, "you smell   
bad."  
  
3:58 P.M.  
  
"This is it." Kenny pulled the tow-truck off   
to the side of the road. It came to rest   
before a small hill that overlooked miles of   
flat land in every direction. There were a   
few trees and a long, white fence, but other   
than that, it was grass as far as the eye   
could see.  
  
"That's where I saw them," Kenny explained,   
pointing to the area immediately above the   
fence.   
  
"Why don't we get a closer look?" Scully said,   
throwing the passenger door open and pushing   
Mulder out into the road.   
  
"Good idea, Scully," he muttered as she closed   
the door and stepped over him. Mulder stood   
up and dusted the dirt off of his pants. He   
followed after Scully, who had her hands on   
her hips and was enjoying stretching her stiff   
legs.   
  
"Well," she said, turning around to face him,   
"I don't see anything out of the ordinary."  
  
"Maybe you're not looking hard enough," Mulder   
replied, brushing past her and walking farther   
out towards the edge of the fence.  
  
"They kinda skittered along the posts, there,"   
Kenny told them, "sorta like this." He made a   
gesture parallel to the fence. "Then they   
stopped and were gone."  
  
"What do you think the objects were?" Mulder   
asked him.  
  
"Well…umm…" Kenny hesitated.  
  
"It's okay," Mulder told him, "Just say it.   
I'll believe you."  
  
Scully rolled her eyes. "Even if he   
shouldn't," she said.  
  
Mulder shot her a warning look. "Go ahead,"   
he said again.  
  
"Well, I don't know if ya'll believe in that   
kinda stuff," he bit his lower lip, "but I   
sorta thought that maybe they might be   
U.F.O.'s?"  
  
"In my experience," Mulder told him, "it's   
never a good idea to rule out any theory,   
however remote it may seem." He continued   
walking out into the fields, parallel to the   
path of the fence. Once he was out about   
two-hundred yards, he turned around and   
brushed his hand along the top of it.   
  
"He's kind of an odd-bird, isn't he?" Kenny   
asked, jerking his neck in Mulder's direction.  
  
"Some might even say spooky," Scully replied,   
and then called to him, "Train is leaving,   
Mulder, with or without you."  
  
He gazed at the fence for a little while   
longer and then turned and slowly proceeded   
back towards the truck. He was greeted by   
Scully who was opening the passenger door.   
"After you, Mulder," she told him.  
  
Davey Crockett Motor Court   
Marfa, Texas  
4:12 P.M.  
  
After filling Mulder's tank and telling him   
that the tow-fee would be "free of charge,"   
Kenny waved to the agent and drove deeper into   
town. Mulder turned around and walked into   
the motel that would serve as his room for the   
night. Scully was already setting up her   
laptop and her personal belongings on the   
dresser by the wall.   
  
"This one's mine, Mulder," she told him as he   
entered the room. She folded her jacket   
neatly into a drawer. "Yours is next door."  
  
"You know, Scully," he told her, "if you're   
really so worried about charging money to the   
Bureau, we could think of alternative ways to   
save some cash." He grinned broadly, his   
hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. "You up   
for a sleep over?"  
  
"I think you might ask yourself the same   
question, Mulder," she responded wryly. She   
unpacked her hairbrush and gestured to the   
adjoining room. "Yours is next door."  
  
"Well, don't get too comfortable, Scully," he   
said resolutely, "We've got to leave in an   
hour."  
  
"What do you mean we've got to leave,   
Mulder?" she asked, "We just arrived here in   
the middle of bumble. What motivation could   
you possible have for leaving?"  
  
"One hour, Scully. We don't want to miss the   
sunset. I hear it's beautiful in Texas this   
time of year."  
  
US Highway 90  
9:27 P.M.  
  
Mulder thumbed his fingers anxiously against   
the steering wheel as Scully leaned against   
the passenger's door, her hand to her temple.   
She sighed deeply, hoping Mulder would note   
her obvious irritation. He glanced at her   
briefly, then reached into his pocket and   
produced a bag of David's Sunflower Seeds.   
He popped a few in his mouth and replaced the   
bag as Scully sighed for a second time. He   
glanced at her again.  
  
"How you holdin' up over there, Scully?"  
  
"Well, aside from the fact that I am sweaty,   
sleep-deprived, and still have the odor of   
an overweight tow-truck driver clinging to   
my clothes, I'm perfectly fine, Mulder."   
She turned towards him and replied blandly   
in an overtly condescending tone, "How are   
you?"  
  
Mulder grimaced. "Do I detect a note of   
sarcasm, Agent Scully?" he asked.  
  
"It's nice to see the months of Bureau   
training weren't lost on you, Agent Mulder."  
  
She ran her fingers absent-mindedly through   
her glistening hair. After a rather lengthy   
silence, she folded her hands and finally   
asked, "Mulder, what are we doing here?"  
  
"We're enjoying the serenity of a peaceful   
Texas night," he answered, fixing his gaze   
towards the open field and the white fence.   
  
"No, Mulder," she said, "you might be, but   
I'm not. There is nothing about this   
rink-a-dink town that I enjoy. There is no   
good reason why we should even be here. If   
Kersh finds out that we neglected our   
casework…"  
  
"C'mon, Scully, stop playing off the 'good   
Catholic school girl' image. Be a little   
adventurous, for once in your life. Kersh   
will never know. Besides, if by some act   
of God he manages to actually find out, we   
can simply tell him the truth."  
  
"That being?" She arched her eyebrow as   
she braced for the answer.  
  
"That we had car problems on the way to   
San Antonio and a case of greater magnitude   
presented itself."  
  
"A case of greater magnitude?" Scully   
inhaled deeply and rolled her cerulean eyes.   
"Mulder, there is no case here. Just the   
ravings of some backwater hick who's seen   
one-too-many George Lucas movies."  
  
Mulder's feigned a look of mock dismay.   
"Now, Scully," he said, "didn't your mother   
ever teach you about the evils of   
stereotyping?"  
  
"Actually, Mulder," she replied, "It's a   
proven fact that the good majority of   
stereotypes are usually true. For instance,   
when I first met you, I formed the opinion   
that your 'dungeon' in the basement was a   
metaphor for how you chose to live your life   
- solitary, brooding, self-inflicted   
confinement. You presented yourself as a   
troubled man whose desire to seek out the   
truth was almost as obsessive and torturous   
as a salmon's need to swim upstream."  
  
"But then you got to know me," he added,   
"the true me. And you couldn't help   
yourself, right? Scully? Are you listening   
to me?"  
  
Scully wasn't listening. Instead, she was   
staring out the front window, eyes wide and   
mouth agape. Directly ahead, floating   
parallel to the fence were five bright   
lights in triangular formation.  
  
Mulder's face became instantly solemn.   
"Looks like we're going to get our money's   
worth from this trip after all…".  
  
He flung open the driver's side door without   
a moment's hesitation and went running out   
into the night. Scully followed in suit, and   
soon the two were standing in the middle of   
the field where Mulder had been standing   
earlier that day. The lights climbed into   
the moonless night, higher and higher. Then,   
suddenly, they swept down, coming to rest   
directly above the guardrail of the fence.   
As Mulder advanced, the lights grew dimmer   
and dimmer, until they disappeared into the   
temperate night. He halted where he saw the   
lights depart and Scully was soon standing at   
his side.  
  
"Mulder?" she asked, "Where'd they go?"  
  
He glanced down over at her.  
  
"They just vanished, Scully," he answered.   
Now his gaze was elsewhere. "Look at that,"   
he said, motioning his head in the direction   
of the fence. She turned as he brushed past   
her.   
  
"What is that, Mulder?" she asked him. He   
was sweeping his hand over the top of the   
wood as she had seen him do from afar in the   
morning light. She pulled out her flashlight   
and shone the bright beam on the fence for   
further examination. As she stepped closer,   
she could see the black streaks which should   
have been white.  
  
"It looks like it's been charred," she told him.  
  
"That's how it looked this morning, too," he   
responded, "just not nearly to the extent that   
it is now." He rolled some ashes between   
pointer finger and thumb. "I think we should   
get this sample analyzed," he said, "determine   
its chemical composition."  
  
"For what, Mulder?" Scully questioned, "What   
are we looking for? I still don't even know   
why we're here."  
  
She could she Mulder's scowl of disapproval   
in the dim light. She sighed in response,   
walked forward, and placed some of the charred   
fence remains securely in her pocket. Stepping   
back, she wrinkled her nose as a fresh odor   
danced over her nostrils.  
  
"Do you smell that?" she asked.  
  
Mulder raised his arm and sniffed his shirt.   
He shot her a sheepish look and shrug his   
shoulders.  
  
"Not you, Mulder," she replied, "It smells   
like…" She wrinkled her nose and took a deep   
whiff.  
  
"Teen spirit?" he finished for her.  
  
"No," she said, tight-lipped, "It smells   
like…" She pointed the flashlight in the   
direction of the pleasant-smelling aroma.   
Scully's mouth dropped open as the beam   
illuminated the subject of the smell.  
  
"It's a dead cow," she informed him. It was,   
indeed. By the glare of the small flashlight,   
she could see what had formerly been a rather   
large Holstein. It was now blackened beyond   
recognition.  
  
"Looks like leftovers for weeks, Scully," he   
said stoically. As the words came out of his   
mouth, the sound of a car engine came roaring   
through the plateau. Mulder and Scully   
immediately turned towards the sound but by   
the time Scully shone the flashlight in the   
car's direction, all that could be seen was   
the outline of a truck with a dark bumper.  
  
"Who do you think that was?" Scully asked.  
  
"Better question," Mulder answered, "is what   
do you think he was hiding?"  
  
Davey Crockett Motor Court  
Marfa, Texas  
9:49 P.M.  
  
Scully unlocked the door to her room, pushed   
it aside, and folded her coat carefully on the   
bed, being sure not to lose any of the precious   
ash that she had collected at the field. She   
kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned the top   
buttons on her blouse, and advanced into the   
bathroom to clean her face after the night's   
excursions. She turned on the water, cupped   
her hands beneath the faucet, and splashed the   
cool stream over her face. She reached for a   
towel as a knock came at the door.  
  
"It's open," she called as she dried her face   
and replaced the towel on the hook by the   
mirror.  
  
"Hey, Scully, it's me," she heard Mulder call   
from the other room. She took one last look   
at herself in the mirror, pulled her hair   
behind her ear, and walked towards the sound   
of his voice.  
  
"What's going on, Mulder?" she asked.  
  
He took one look at her, shirt partially   
unbuttoned and pulled out from her slacks,   
hair disheveled, slightly shiny from the sweat   
of their impromptu workout.  
  
"Geez, Scully," he said blandly, lips thin and   
unquivering, "you didn't have to get all   
dressed up for me."  
  
She cocked her head to the side, a scowl   
encompassing her regal features, and placed a   
hand to her hip. "Is there something you   
wanted?" she asked.  
  
"Scully," he shook his head in mock disdain,   
"didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't   
bite the hand that feeds you?"  
  
She noticed the brown paper bag in his hand for   
the first time as he raised it to her eye level.   
"That's right," he said, shaking it back and   
forth, "I brought sandwiches."  
  
"Ohh," Scully moaned, her stomach ached with the   
pangs of hunger. She hadn't realized just how   
complete her starvation was until that moment.   
She bit her lip and then waved him in. "Well,"   
she asked him, "what are you waiting for?"  
  
Mulder walked into the room and seated himself   
on the bed, pushing aside her jacket. He placed   
the bag on the bed and pulled the   
cellophane-wrapped packages from their container.   
Scully sat beside him and anxiously grabbed for   
one of the sandwiches, unwrapping it.  
  
"I don't suppose you have anything to drink in   
there, do you?" she asked through greedy   
mouthfuls of the food.  
  
Mulder produced a Diet Coke from the bag and   
pointed to the can.  
  
"Just for the taste of it," he told her.  
  
She smiled gratefully, placing the sandwich   
in its bag and popping the can open with   
well-manicured fingernails.  
  
"So, Mulder," she asked through gulps, "what   
do you think is going on here?"  
  
"You mean besides the late-night barbeques?"   
he responded blithely, raising his own soda   
to his mouth. She detected the faint hint   
of a smirk on his lips.  
  
"Yeah, besides that."  
  
"Well," he began, "I must admit that I   
didn't find here exactly what I was looking   
for." He took another swig for suspense and   
then continued. "At first, I believed that   
the lights corresponded to some landing site   
for a craft of extraterrestrial origin. You   
should be well aware by now, Scully, that the   
southwestern United States is a hotbed for   
U.F.O. activity."  
  
His diatribe was momentarily interrupted by   
the sound of a large belch that seemed far   
too vast to have had its origin in Scully's   
small frame.   
  
"Excuse me," she said, cheeks showing the   
smallest signs of reddening.  
  
Mulder raised his eyebrows, his face   
expressing disbelief.  
  
"How lady-like," he said drolly, "It's   
amazing that no one's snatched you up yet."  
  
"At least I don't have to dial nine-hundred   
numbers to have a good time," she responded   
in similar fashion.  
  
He shot her a look of extreme distaste.   
  
"May I continue?" he asked.  
  
"Please," she replied, "don't let me   
interrupt you."  
  
She positioned herself against the headboard   
and waited politely for the other shoe to drop.  
  
"As I was saying," Mulder stated, "I believed   
that the lights had some connection to   
extraterrestrial craft. The majority of   
well-documented close encounters often   
describes lights of different colors aligning   
in a 'V' or triangular shape. The method in   
which the tow-truck worker described their   
parallel movement also suggested to me the   
movement of reported alien crafts."  
  
"But now you don't believe that's what we   
witnessed?" she asked incredulously, "I must   
say, Mulder, I'm a little out of my element   
here. If not alien crafts, what do you   
believe caused the lights that we saw? And   
what about the cremation of the cow? How do   
you explain it?"  
  
"I didn't recall it until I saw the burning   
tonight," he said, "There is an X-File that   
dates back to 1957, only a decade after the   
first reported U.F.O. sighting in Roswell.   
A cattle-rancher was riding out on horseback,   
checking up on his animals before an   
approaching thunderstorm, when he observed   
red, yellow, and white balls of light dancing   
across the night sky. They fell to about   
three meters off the earth, where they   
remained stationary for about a minute,   
before disappearing into the night. He   
recorded a loud bang as the lights departed,   
and a lingering, rancid odor."  
  
He paused to take a breath before beginning   
again.  
  
"That was not the first recorded sighting,   
however. Ancient Greeks and various populations   
throughout the Middle Ages have reported seeing   
balls of light moving across the sky. Sailors   
have reported similar phenomena, designating it   
by the name 'St. Elmo's Fire.' Other cases have   
been described by such terms as 'swamp gas,'   
'static electricity,' and 'ghost lights.'   
Theories as to its origin abound, from   
electromagnetic energy being conducted through   
elements in the earth, to radiation signals from   
extraterrestrial aircraft."  
  
Scully smiled warmly.  
  
"So this is another U.F.O. chase after all, then?"  
  
He returned the smile.  
  
"Not exactly. I believe that I said that some   
people purport that the lights are the result of   
alien craft."  
  
"But you don't believe that is the case."  
  
He was grinning ear-to-ear.  
  
"I want to believe."  
  
"I'm having a little trouble reading between the   
lines, Mulder," Scully informed him, discarding   
the empty cellophane on the table beside her bed,   
"Why don't you just spell it out for me?"  
  
"I-T-O-U-T-F-O-R-M-E."  
  
"I meant tell me what you think, smart ass."  
  
"What I think," Mulder smirked, "is that I won't   
be sure what we're dealing with until you get me   
those lab results on our little sample." He stood   
up and patted her coat pocket with seeming love and   
affection, then turned and walked towards the door.  
  
"And what are you hoping to gather from that?" she   
called after him.  
  
He turned back to face her, one hand on the doorknob.   
"Just get me the results, Scully," he answered. He   
opened the door and walked out into the moonless   
night.  
  
Scully stood up and after him. Bracing herself with   
one hand on either side of the door frame, she called   
to him from the threshold, "What about the cow, Mulder?"  
  
She heard only a voice call back, "The results, Scully." 


	2. A Murderer on the Loose

Davey Crockett Motor Court  
Room 1121  
3:42 A.M.  
  
"Mmm…that's right. You know I like it   
like that. Mmm…that feels good."  
  
Dana Scully twisted her silken legs   
between the cotton sheets. "Oh," a moan   
of ecstasy escaped her lips. She felt her   
cheeks flush with heat. She licked her   
lips as her eyes rolled back in her head.   
"Oh, oh God," she breathed, "Oh God!" She   
could hear the headboard knocking against   
the wall - thud, thud, thud. It was slow   
at first, but then became more insistent.   
Thud, thud, thud.  
  
"Stop, oh God! Please, oh God!"  
  
Thud, thud, thud.  
  
"Oh, God!"  
  
"Scully?"   
  
She could hear the voice calling her name.  
  
"Yes, yes!"  
  
"Scully?"  
  
The voice came again, questioning,   
uncomprehending.  
  
"Scully, it's me, wake up."  
  
Scully awoke with a start. The knocks came   
again, this time originating from the motel   
door.   
  
"Scully, are you there?" she heard Mulder   
call again.  
  
"Coming," she answered. She stood up and   
faced the bureau mirror. Her clothes were   
soaked with sweat, clinging to her like a   
newborn to her mother's breast. Her hair   
was hanging wild and free and her entire   
body was hot and flushed. She ran into the   
bathroom and splashed some cold water over   
her face.  
  
"Scully?"  
  
"I'll be right there!" she called to him.  
  
She dried her face and rushed to the door.   
She stopped in front of it, gathering her   
composure. She grabbed the robe off the   
counter, placed it on, and smoothed out the   
wrinkles. When everything was set to her   
satisfaction, she pulled off the sliding lock   
and placed a hand on the doorknob. Pulling   
wide the door, she glared deeply at her partner.  
  
"Mulder, don't you ever sleep? It's nearly   
four o'clock in the morning."  
  
He stared at her, gazing deeply into her   
facial features. He smiled broadly, knowingly.  
  
"What?" Scully blurted out, a little too   
harshly and a little more anxiously than   
she would have liked.  
  
"Oh, nothing," his smile grew larger,   
"Nothing at all."  
  
A little rouge inadvertently rushed to   
her cheeks.   
  
"Was there something you wanted?" she   
asked curtly.  
  
"Get dressed," he commanded, "there's   
been…a development."  
  
"Get dressed?" she repeated, "Where are   
we going? It's four o'clock in the morning?"  
  
"I'm leaving in five minutes, Scully," he   
told her, "You can join me if you'd like."   
He stole one final glance, smiled, then   
turned and departed.  
  
Scully closed the door behind him and   
prepared to dress herself. As she walked   
towards her luggage, she found herself   
wondering exactly how much Mulder had   
overheard.  
  
Blanca Cortes Residence  
1013 West Waco St.  
4:22 A.M.  
  
An officer signaled to Mulder with   
outstretched hands as he pulled the silver   
Ford Taurus up to the normally cozy   
cul-de-sac that was, at the moment, overrun   
with flashing ambulance lights, black and   
white cars, and yellow dispersion tape. A   
crowd of curious onlookers stood on the   
sidewalk in red and green robes, gazing   
with simultaneous interest and dismay at   
the unhappy and unexpected wakeup call.   
Mulder reached for his identification as   
he steered the car up alongside the policeman.   
Rolling down the window, he lifted the badge   
towards the officer's eyelevel.  
  
"Special Agent Fox Mulder. Can you direct   
me to the officer in charge?"  
  
The officer nodded in affirmation as Mulder   
put the I.D. back in his pocket.   
  
"Detective Harris," he replied, pointing out   
a tall gentleman of medium-build who was   
sporting a lengthy, tan duster and an   
outlandishly gaudy orange and green tie.  
  
"Thank you," Mulder responded, directing the   
car to the curb and turning off the ignition.  
  
"Hard time picking that guy in a crowd, huh,   
Scully?" Mulder said as he unbuckled his belt   
and stepped from the car. Scully rolled her   
insomnia-induced red eyes as she opened the   
door. She caught up to Mulder, who was holding   
up the yellow police tape for her to pass   
underneath. She did, and he followed after.   
They advanced towards the front porch, where the   
detective the officer had pointed out was   
standing.  
  
"Detective Harris?" Scully questioned.  
  
The comely detective turned around, grinning   
broadly beneath a wide-brimmed ten-gallon hat.  
  
"That's right ma'am," he said, putting his   
pointer finger and thumb to his hat, tipping   
it in her direction, "Now I do believe that you   
own the advantage, here. Mebbe you could do me   
the honor of evenin' out the odds."  
  
Scully arched her eyebrows, thoroughly confused.  
  
"I reckon he's askin' for your name," Mulder   
whispered in her ear as he, for the second time   
that night, pulled out his identification.  
  
"Special Agent Fox Mulder," he said, presenting   
his picture to the detective, "and my partner,   
Agent Scully."  
  
"Ah, yes, Agent Mulder," he nodded his head in   
affirmation, "I do believe we spoke on the phone."  
  
"That's right, sir. I hope you don't mind if we   
have a look around?"  
  
"Not at all," Detective Harris answered, leading   
the agents into the house, "Actually, we're all   
a little stumped as to how this all could've   
happened. I was hopin' that, mebbe, this kinda   
thing would fall under your area of expertise."  
  
Detective Harris led the partners past the front   
foyer and a set of swirling, wooden staircases   
that led upstairs. They proceeded through an   
expansive hall, laden with framed family photos.   
Happy photos, Scully noted, happy photos of   
camping trips, and adventures by the lake, and   
beachside relaxation. She sighed deeply,   
wondering inwardly how many lives had been   
disrupted on nights just like this. How many   
motherless children were out there, abandoned   
due to the whims a merciless, cold-blooded   
killer?   
  
"If you can't figure this one out, I don't   
know who can."  
  
Scully snapped back from her reverie as   
Detective Harris advanced into a pleasant   
living room, full of cream-colored couches   
and a fireplace just as warm as the room,   
itself. An oaken coffee table graced the   
middle of the room, perfectly complementing   
a grand oaken bureau that was situated in   
the back corner, filled to the   
brim with crystalline and porcelain   
knick-knacks. There was only one, quite   
literal, stain on the otherwise perfect home   
before her eyes. Situated on the middle   
cushion of the couch was a large black stain.   
Scully advanced closer and grabbed some latex   
gloves from one of the medical examiners. She   
snapped them on and picked up some of the dark   
particles that constituted the stain.  
  
"It looks like ash," she said, bringing it   
nearer to her face for closer inspection,   
"How did ash get on this sofa?"  
  
Mulder nudged her with his elbow.  
  
"Well, I don't know if my powers of deduction   
are as finely-tuned as yours, Agent Scully, but   
I think I can make a conjecture." He pointed   
to the floor. Scully's mouth dropped wide as   
she saw the object of his interest. All that   
remained of the former owner of the cozy room   
were two legs, charred at the knees, and a pile   
of ash and bones.  
  
Marfa Medical Examiner's Office  
9:08 A.M.  
  
Scully stepped away from the metal cart that   
carried the scant remains of Mrs. Blanca Cortes.   
She tossed her transparent surgical gloves in   
the nearest trashcan and flipped her safety   
goggles to the top of her head as the examining   
room's large double doors opened towards her.   
Mulder strode rather quickly into the room, his   
dark, knee-length coat trailing gracefully behind.  
  
"What'd you find, Scully?" he asked abruptly.  
  
"Good morning to you, too, Mulder," she replied   
haughtily.  
  
"Good morning. What'd you find, Scully?"  
  
"Well, Mulder," Scully began, "there wasn't   
exactly much left to examine. I'm actually at   
a bit of a loss to describe what transpired at   
the Cortes household. The only item that I could   
definitely ascertain is that extreme heat was   
needed in order to generate this kind of   
corporeal disintegration."  
  
"I'm no doctor, Scully, but I could've told you   
that."  
  
"Then let me tell you something you don't know,"   
Scully replied indignantly, "The temperature   
would have to be, on average, somewhere around   
three thousand degrees Farenheit to do this kind   
of damage. Only, that heat would do more than   
burn this woman into oblivion. Her entire home   
should have been destroyed, Mulder, but not even   
the couch was scorched."  
  
"What are you suggesting, Scully?"  
  
"I'm not sure, Mulder," Scully answered. She   
shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.   
"The victim's death certainly wasn't accidental.   
There was no fire in the fireplace, and Cortes   
detested cigarettes. If homicide came into play,   
then oil or some other accelerant should have been   
found on her body, but there were no traces of any   
chemicals present on the remnants of her clothing."  
  
Mulder smiled. "So that leaves, what? Spontaneous   
human combustion?"  
  
Scully sighed. "At this point in time, I don't   
believe that it is possible to rule any theory out."  
  
"You know, Scully, spontaneous human combustion   
isn't that outrageous an idea. Many reliable cases   
have been well documented throughout the ages,   
beginning with the publishing of the 'De Incendiis   
Corporis Humani Spontaneis' by Jonas Dupont in the   
seventeenth century, to the Reeser case in the   
fifties, up to the present day. In 1957, Anna   
Martin's torso and shoes were found, a result of   
burning conditions that must have reached up to   
two thousand degrees, but newspapers were found   
only two feet away from her body. Hell, Scully,   
even you once suggested the possibilities of   
spontaneous human combustion."  
  
"And that avenue didn't prove to be the correct   
one, did it, Mulder?"  
  
"Well how does this grab you?" Mulder asked,   
producing a folded piece of paper from his jacket   
pocket.   
  
Scully took the paper from his hands.  
  
"What's this?" she asked, shooting him a quizzical   
look of concern.  
  
"Copy of a witness report," he responded, "See   
anything of interest?"  
  
Scully leafed quickly through the two or three   
paragraphs. One sentence in particular jumped   
out at her: "Witness reports viewing five   
multi-colored balls of light enter the victim's   
house at approximately 10:00 P.M.."  
  
"That's right," Mulder said, nodding his head   
in affirmation, "Looks like a case of greater   
magnitude just presented itself."  
  
Debbie's Diner  
11:14 A.M.  
  
Mulder grinned boyishly as the buxom, apron-clad   
waitress bent over to refill his black coffee, her   
cleavage line appearing ever-so-slightly through   
the low-cut white blouse.  
  
"You want any cream with that, sir?" she asked in   
a southern-belle drawl.  
  
"I've got plenty of my own," he replied softly,   
eyes drawn to the blonde's bust line.  
  
"What was that, sir?" she questioned, "I'm   
afraid I didn't hear you."  
  
"I said 'no thanks'," he answered, for the first   
time looking up at the face to whom he was speaking,   
"I like it black."  
  
"Let me know if you need anything."  
  
"You bet I will," he responded. The waitress   
turned on her heels and departed as Scully walked   
through the door. She shot Mulder a sideways glance,   
then seated herself on the plush red cushion in the   
booth seat across from him.  
  
"Ball lightning," she stated abruptly, throwing a   
stack of folded papers on the tabletop.  
  
"Scully!" Mulder tsked, putting on his best doe-eyed,   
feigned look of dismay, "You know I asked you not to   
call me by my nickname when we're in public!"  
  
Scully frowned with disapproval.   
  
"First of all, Mulder," she replied, "given the   
miniscule number of female social acquaintances of   
yours that I've met in the six years that I've known   
you, I believe I can say without hesitation that I'm   
quite certain that that nickname does not apply to   
you."  
  
Mulder smiled.  
  
"Wanna find out?"  
  
Scully continued as though she had heard nothing.  
  
"Secondly, I was referring to the cause of death of   
Mrs. Blanca Cortes."  
  
Mulder's demeanor instantly became serious.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I did a little research after I left the medical   
examiner's office this morning. There is a phenomena   
known as 'ball lightning' that has come under   
scientific study in the past couple of years. Ball   
lightning is usually reported as appearing in the   
form of small baseball-shaped spheres of multi-colored   
lights. Its origin is unknown, although several   
reports have cited thunderstorms and tornados as the   
cause. A paper published recently in the scientific   
journal 'Nature' suggests that the magnetic force   
generated by the electricity present in a lightning   
strike causes electrons to be stripped violently from   
elements present in the earth or in the atmosphere,   
most often copper. This process causes only   
positively-charged molecules to remain, generating a   
form of high-temperature gas, what the authors refer   
to as 'plasma'."  
  
Scully halted her informational harangue as the   
waitress advanced to take her order. After Scully   
ordered her standard coffee and breakfast roll, Mulder   
asked, "And you think there's some connection to the   
Marfa occurrences?"  
  
"Well, the temperature generated from such an act   
would be somewhere on the order of fifty-thousand   
degrees Fahrenheit. That is the type of heat   
necessary to effectively cremate the body of Mrs.   
Cortes. In addition, the high temperature would   
cause the effected elements to become conductive,   
thereby losing a large amount of electrical   
resistance. This would enable them to seemingly   
float in midair, in such a fashion as reported by   
the tow-truck man and the witness to Cortes' death."  
  
Mulder did not look convinced.  
  
"Scully, what you describe sounds like a rare   
condition caused by natural, environmental forces.   
Yet, the death of Cortes occurred inside her own   
home."  
  
"Ball lightning has often been reported as entering   
buildings, Mulder," she replied without hesitation,   
"Witnesses report ball lightning flowing through   
windows and doors, floating down hallways, and even   
entering airplanes."  
  
Mulder chuckled softly to himself.   
  
"And you believe that that theory is plausible?"   
he scoffed.  
  
"I believe it's a hell of a lot more plausible than   
spontaneous human combustion," she replied, "What's  
more, the tests came back on the ash that we found  
on the fence, and it contained large quantities of  
copper, larger than amounts that should be present  
in ordinary wood."  
  
Mulder nodded his head as the waitress returned   
and placed Scully's brunch meal in front of her.  
  
"Eat up, Scully," Mulder said, "we have a busy day   
ahead of us. You're going to need all of your   
energy."  
  
"Why, Mulder," she asked, picking off a piece of   
her roll and popping it in her mouth, "Are your   
lightning balls feeling electrified?"  
  
Mulder smiled broadly.   
  
"Scully, have I told you I love you today?"  
  
Apache Nation Reservation  
11:42 A.M.  
  
"How did you find out about this place, Mulder?"   
Scully asked as she stepped from the car and   
closed the door behind her.  
  
"I found a brochure in the motel lobby this morning,"   
Mulder answered, meeting Scully around the front of   
the car. They began advancing through the waterlogged   
dirt road as he reached into his pocket and produced   
the informational booklet, handing it over to his   
partner. She opened it and browsed through briefly   
as he continued.  
  
"It relates some of the local folklore surrounding   
your 'ball lightning.' I asked the manager if he   
could elaborate on the stories and this is where   
he directed me." He gestured with his hand to the   
rink-a-dink shanty town that surrounded them. "He   
said that the man who could best answer my questions   
resided here."  
  
"And who is that?" she asked, glancing up from her   
light reading.  
  
"A much respected elder of the local Apache nation,"   
he responded, "Hopefully he can provide insight into   
what we're looking for."  
  
"What are we looking for, Mulder?" she questioned   
softly, putting a hand to his arm to stop him in his   
tracks. She felt suddenly and grossly aware of the   
hundreds of eyes fixated on the two strangers as they   
paused in front of a dilapidated one-story home with   
dingy, faded, white paint that was peeling off the   
sides.  
  
"First we're looking for lights in the sky, then a   
runaway cow assassin, and now we've come to the   
middle of nowhere in a desperate attempt to glean   
what little information we can about local history   
in order to catch a killer? What exactly are you   
hoping to find, Mulder?"  
  
The agents turned their heads as the squeaking of   
hinges signaled the opening of the front door. An   
elderly, wrinkled, white-haired gentleman appeared   
from behind the screen.  
  
"I believe that he's come seeking the truth."  
  
11:45 A.M.  
  
"I was born and raised in this town. Seventy years   
ago my father moved my mother and seven brothers   
here, seeking out a better existence, one where   
prejudice and rage had no room to grow. I was born   
the following year, and have lived here ever since.   
In that time, I have come to know the people, each   
generation passing freely like the day into the   
night."  
  
The wise man paused as he attempted to stifle a   
cough. He picked up the mug of hot tea that was   
situated on the kitchen table in front of him and   
drank from it slowly. He felt the soothing liquid   
travel down his throat. Then, placing the mug back   
on the table, he gazed long and hard at the   
stern-looking man and his cherubic partner. He   
could sense the conviction in him, some tireless   
devotion to the search. There was faith in her   
also, just of a different kind. He cleared his   
throat once more and resumed his account.  
  
"As soon as he moved to Marfa, my father was told   
a story by the local people of lights of different   
colors that often appeared in the night sky, moving   
in one motion like coyotes stalking their prey. When   
I grew older my father told me of an Apache legend   
that was told to him in turn. It was said that there   
was once a mighty chief, strong in body and will, but   
weak in judgment. One night, the chief, Alsate,   
offended a tribal God. The reason why is unknown.   
However, the God repaid the chief for his deed by   
condemning him to wander this plain for eternity,   
his soul ever restless, never able to gain refuge.   
It is said that the lights are the spirit of Alsate,   
still walking the earth."  
  
The man, Mulder, leaned in, seemingly engrossed in   
the discussion. He could tell that the woman, on   
the other hand, was not so enthused. Her eyes were   
aloof and her arms were folded neatly across her chest.   
  
"I had heard that there were alternative theories   
regarding the lights," Mulder said, "something about   
a family."  
  
"That is right," John Runninghorse answered, "The mid   
1800s was a time of great growth in Texas,   
specifically in this region. Marfa was a point   
through which many settlers traveled. One of those   
families had the misfortune of getting separated from   
a caravan during a moonless night. They got turned   
around after many hours, the oil from their lanterns   
began to wear thin. Some believe that the souls of   
that family are found in the lights, their lanterns   
forever shining until the day when they can be   
reunited with their friends and family."  
  
"Yes," Mulder continued, "but I thought there were   
other theories as well, theories that do not involve   
dead spirits?"  
  
Runninghorse was truly confused.   
  
"I am afraid that I do not understand."  
  
Mulder sat up straight in his seat.  
  
"Do you ever see any other sights, sights that   
could not be explained by any other means?"  
  
Runninghorse shook his head.  
  
"Do you see bright beams of light?"  
  
"I am afraid not, Agent Mulder."  
  
"Does anyone ever go missing and is returned days   
later, without having any recollection of the events   
that occurred in their mental absence?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you ever get the sensation that you are   
missing time?"  
  
"Missing time?"  
  
"The feeling that you suddenly lost some minutes   
in your day that should have been present, but   
weren't?"  
  
Runninghorse shook his head again.   
  
"I am sorry, Agent Mulder, but I have never   
experienced any of what you are saying."  
  
Agent Scully uncrossed her arms and stood up   
from the table.  
  
"Thank you for all of your assistance, Mr.   
Runninghorse. You've been more than helpful."   
Then she looked over at her partner, "Let's go,   
Mulder."  
  
He glanced briefly back at her and held up his   
pointer finger in protest.  
  
"Hold on a second, Scully. Just one more   
question, Mr. Runninghorse."  
  
"Anything, Agent Mulder. I am more than happy   
to help in any way that I can."  
  
"Do you know of anyone that owns a dark truck,   
maybe black or navy-blue?"  
  
Runninghorse leaned back and put his finger to   
his lips.  
  
"Well," he said, "there are very few people that   
own trucks around here. Of the few, there are a   
couple that I can think of with that color truck   
- Jim Brohawn, Kenny Ryan, and Henry Phoenix."  
  
"Henry Phoenix?" Mulder questioned, putting a   
hand to his hip and arching his eyebrows   
ever-so-slightly, "Aren't the Apache often named   
after animals indigenous to the area and culture?"  
  
Runninghorse nodded his head.  
  
"Yes, that is right."  
  
"Then how did this man Henry come to be surnamed   
with an animal that is neither real nor   
fictitiously indigenous to this area?"  
  
"Henry Phoenix is quite his own legend   
altogether," Runninghorse answered, a look of   
uneasiness clouding over his eyes, "His parents   
were well-educated, and versed in philosophy and   
Greek culture. They moved to Marfa when Henry was   
two years old with the hopes of creating a school   
to teach our people. They thought that if the   
people were taught, they would be able to leave   
this meager existence and obtain real jobs.   
Unemployment is a big problem here, and it leaves   
greater alcoholism in its wake."  
  
Runninghorse took a deep breath, then continued.  
  
"Less than a year after they moved here, there was   
a terrible fire in their home. The flames reached   
twenty feet in the air and the heat could be felt   
from miles away. The flames did not subside until   
the morning light blanketed the earth. By that time,   
all that was left of the house, and Henry's parents,   
was a pile of ashes. But sitting undisturbed where   
the house once stood was Henry, his face covered in   
soot, but otherwise unharmed. In honor of his   
parents, and the miraculous gift bestowed upon him   
by the gods, his relatives gave him the name   
'Phoenix,' like the creature of Greek myth who would   
rise from his own ashes in order to begin his life   
anew."  
  
Mulder's eyes were wide with awe.  
  
"Do you know how we can get in touch with Henry   
Phoenix?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," Runninghorse answered, "I'll give you the   
address." As he left the room to get a piece of   
paper to write on, Mulder stood up and faced   
Scully, a smile broad on his face.  
  
"Let me guess," she pre-empted him, "Somehow,   
Henry Phoenix has generated powers of combustion   
that allow him to char any object beyond recognition,   
but also allow him to remain unscathed."  
  
Mulder grinned from ear-to-ear.   
  
"Scully," he asked, "are you coming on to me?"  
  
Scully was about to reply when Runninghorse   
emerged from the living room, paper in hand.  
  
"Here is the address, Agent Mulder," he said,   
handing the sheet with writing over to the tall,   
mysterious man.   
  
"Thank you, Mr. Runninghorse," he replied,   
lifting the paper in a gesture of thanks, "We   
appreciate all of your help."  
  
He turned and followed his partner to the door.   
He was about to follow her over the threshold   
when the aging oracle called to him a final time.  
  
"Agent Mulder?"  
  
Mulder turned and faced him. Words were not   
needed. The questioning expression in his eyes   
provided all the needed communication.  
  
"Light is not always a sign of righteousness and   
truth. Though the night brings fear and   
uncertainty in its darkness, it is the light   
that distorts reality, that causes the darkness.   
In its rising and setting, the sun plays a daily   
trick on all of its children, forging lengthy   
shadows with its trek across the sky."  
  
"What are you trying to tell me," Mulder asked,   
"that I'm looking for answers in the wrong places?"  
  
Runninghorse sighed deeply.  
  
"When Icarus flew too close to the sun, he paid   
for his pride with his life."  
  
Mulder angrily placed a hand on his hip. He didn't   
have the time to talk in circles. There was a   
dangerous man on the loose.  
  
"Are you warning me, Mr. Runninghorse?"  
  
"Warn is not the right word, Agent Mulder,"   
Runninghorse answered, "I only caution.   
Do not look for truth in the sun, Agent Mulder,   
or you will be blinded by the light."  
  
Mulder turned and heatedly pushed aside the   
front screen door, sending it careening back   
on its hinges. Scully was waiting patiently   
by the car as he appeared.   
  
"What did he say to you?" she asked.  
  
"He asked me for your number," he responded   
stoically, not deigning to permit a smile to   
cross his face. He unlocked the doors roughly   
and seated himself at the driver's wheel.   
Scully gazed back at the house as she opened   
the door. John Runninghorse was staring   
despondently through the screen. As she seated   
herself beside Mulder, Scully wondered to   
herself what he was hiding.  
  
Henry Phoenix Residence  
422 Breckenridge Rd.  
12:38 P.M.  
  
The unusually dark day would have made it   
nearly impossible to navigate through the   
obscure, narrow, tree-lined passage had it not   
have been for the alternating red and blue   
lights illuminating the sky. Scully could see   
the lights half a mile down the offset, muddy   
path before the gathering crowd of officers and   
medics even came into view.  
  
"Mulder?" she questioned, throwing her arm behind   
his seat and leaning in a slightly forward position.   
Her eyes darted from one direction to the other,   
fruitlessly searching the scene for answers.  
  
"I don't know," he responded softly. A slight   
frown of consternation clouded his brooding features.  
  
The lights grew bright and blinding as the silver   
Taurus rolled to a stop. Scully grabbed a black   
umbrella from the back seat and stepped from the   
car. She rejoined Mulder in front and lifted the   
umbrella clumsily over his towering head. She   
increased her gait to keep in pace with him as he   
pulled the I.D. from his jacket. The rhythmic   
pounding of the rain on the leaves was heavy and   
strangely unsettling.  
  
"Agent Mulder," he said, raising the identification   
to the eye-level of a nearby officer, "F.B.I..   
What happened here?"  
  
"Fire," the balding, stocky man replied, "big one   
by the looks of it."  
  
"Were there any injuries?" Scully asked, taking   
in the presence of several EMTs, "I'm a medical   
doctor. I may be of some assistance."  
  
The officer nodded his head.  
  
"One male victim…we think."  
  
"What do you mean, you think?" Scully asked.  
  
"By the time the fireman got here," he responded,   
"it was too late." He sighed deeply and shook his   
head. "I've been on the force for ten years now,   
seen a lot of bad stuff, but nothing that ever   
looked like this."  
  
Mulder wasn't paying attention. He was watching   
intently as Detective Harris questioned a witness.  
  
"Scully," he said, "why don't you see what you can   
find out from the medics. I'll go see if I can help   
the good detective."  
  
Before she could respond, he ducked out from under   
the umbrella and joined Detective Harris as he   
finished with the frightened robe-wearing elderly   
woman.  
  
"Here's my number. Call me if you need anythin'."   
Detective Harris handed the woman a card and   
dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He smiled   
as he looked up from his notes and took in the form   
of Fox Mulder approaching him.  
  
"Agent Mulder," he said, "why'm I not surprised to   
see ya'll here?"  
  
"Well," he answered, with a little pseudo-enthusiasm   
in his voice, "you know what they say about bad   
pennies."  
  
"Worth two inda bush, right?"  
  
Mulder slowly turned his head from the panicked   
scene on his left to the tall man on his right.  
  
"Um, right." He smiled and nodded his head in   
false agreement.  
  
"So what do we have here, Detective?" he asked   
in an effort to mercifully change the subject. He   
looked down at the blue body-bag at his feet.  
  
"A Mr. Joaquin Still-River," he said with some   
difficulty, "or what we're currently assumin' to   
be. The body was charred beyond all recognition.   
Wit' the intense heat generated by the fire, the   
current theory is arson, started wit' some kinda   
gasoline or sometin'."  
  
Mulder nodded and stooped down to the ground. He   
unzipped the bag to reveal some black bones and a   
pile of ash. He glanced up at Detective Harris.  
  
"All that wuz left," he told him, "The house was   
gone before we got here."  
  
Mulder stood up and dusted the mud off of his   
hands as Scully approached him in the darkness.   
She halted in front of him and allowed an "Oh my   
God," to breathlessly pass her lips before   
acknowledging the presence of the two men. She   
finally looked up.  
  
"Just like the other one," she said to Mulder   
who nodded in agreement.  
  
"What'd you find out, Scully?" he asked her.  
  
"Upon arriving on the scene, the medics found a   
man fifty yards from the ground where the house   
once stood. He showed no signs of burning on his   
dermal layer, but he was suffering from slight   
smoke-inhalation and muscle and abdominal pain.   
He was taken to the nearest hospital twenty   
minutes before we arrived. I'll give you two   
guesses as to who that man was, Mulder."  
  
"Don't tell me," he said, "Henry Phoenix?"  
  
"That's right," she answered, not even the hint   
of a smile on her immaculate features, "and for   
your grand prize you get an all-expenses paid   
trip to Marfa County General."  
  
Marfa County General Hospital  
1:18 P.M.  
  
"This is simply amazing, Mulder."  
  
Scully raised an eyebrow as she flipped from   
one page to the next.  
  
"What is it, Scully?"  
  
Mulder joined her at her side and looked at the   
patient's chart over her dainty shoulder.  
  
"With the amount of smoke that was found in   
his lungs, it is almost certain that Henry   
Phoenix was present in the house during the   
fire, yet his dermal layer shows no signs of   
first degree burns, let alone the third degree   
burns that should have been present with the   
heat that the firemen described."  
  
"Are you sure that he couldn't have been close   
in proximity to the house, say directly outside   
of it?"  
  
Scully shook her head adamantly.  
  
"No, Mulder. It's simply not possible. This   
man inhaled enough smoke to induce a coma."  
  
Mulder nodded in comprehension.  
  
"Well, that explains it, then," he told her.  
  
She folded a strand of hair neatly behind her ear.  
  
"Explains what, Mulder?" she asked.  
  
"That explains how 'O Henry' in there is able to   
control temperatures so hot that it converts   
people and buildings to ashes, but remains   
unscathed."  
  
Scully smiled sardonically.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, "I'm just not   
seeing the connection."  
  
"Scully, if what you say is true, and that man   
was inside the burning house, how do you explain   
the complete absence of burns?"  
  
Scully shrugged her shoulders.  
  
"I don't know, Mulder. I've never seen anything   
like it."  
  
Mulder leaned in closer to her, so they were at   
the same eyelevel.   
  
"Scully, what if this man had some genetic   
anomaly that permitted him to survive extreme   
temperatures, so that even as the wood and   
upholstery around him burned to the ground, no   
traces of fire were able to touch his body?"  
  
Scully's eyes drew askance as her smile grew   
broader.  
  
"Mulder," she started to explain, "there's no   
precedence for what you're describing."  
  
"Bear with me a second, Scully," he interrupted   
her, "If there were such an anomaly, isn't it at   
all possible that the person to whom it belonged   
would be able to, say, set himself on fire?   
Maybe if he doused himself in some sort of   
accelerant, he would have been able to kill   
Blanca Cortes and then smother the flames, all   
without doing any damage to his own body."  
  
Scully sighed deeply.  
  
"I suppose anything is possible," she said   
reluctantly.  
  
Sometimes, it was just better to appease him.  
  
"Listen, Scully," Mulder said, "I'm going to   
find out whose ashes we picked up at that house.   
Why don't you do me a favor and personally   
examine Henry Phoenix?"  
  
Scully put a hand on her hip.  
  
"What am I looking for, Mulder?" she asked.  
  
He turned to walk out the door.  
  
"You can tell me when you find it," he answered. 


	3. The Great Copper Caper

Marfa County Investigator's Office  
2:03 P.M.  
  
"I'll bring him in as soon as he's   
released. Thanks for all your help."  
  
Mulder stood up from the plush leather   
chair opposite Detective Harris' desk   
and departed from his office. After   
closing the door behind him, Mulder   
plucked the cell phone from his pocket   
and dialed Scully's number. After two   
rings, she picked up.  
  
"Scully," he heard the familiar voice   
on the other line.  
  
"Scully, it's me," he said, "I'm done   
over here. How 'bout you?"  
  
"I'm finished, too, Mulder," she said,   
placing a hand to her hip, "but I have   
to say that I'm at a loss to explain what   
I've found here." She hesitated before   
she said, "I think you may have been right."  
  
A broad grin erupted on Mulder's face.  
  
"I'm sorry, Scully," he said, "you're   
breaking up. Could you repeat that last   
sentence?"  
  
Scully curled her lips disapprovingly and   
ignored the comment.  
  
"Mulder, Henry Phoenix suffers from a   
hereditary condition known as Wilson's   
Disease. It is a form of sickness which   
results in the body retaining excessive   
amounts of copper in the body."  
  
Mulder raised his eyebrows.  
  
"And that's bad?"  
  
"The results could be lethal if untreated,"   
Scully responded, "Phoenix has all of the   
symptoms - mild tremors, vomiting, muscle   
and abdominal pain, brown circles about the   
eyes, acute liver damage - and yet he has   
been able to survive for more than twenty   
years with no treatment. It's unprecedented."  
  
Mulder's tone grew excited as he began to   
make the connections in his head.  
  
"Scully, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"  
  
Scully rolled her eyes.  
  
"Probably not."  
  
"Didn't you say that that phenomena you were   
talking about…what was it…ball lightning…that   
it was created when lightning stripped the   
electrons off of copper?"  
  
Scully raised an eyebrow as a look of   
disbelief appeared on her face.  
  
"Mulder," she sighed, "you don't seriously   
think that that rare phenomenon is at anyway   
at all related to the equally rare condition   
that is found in the body of Henry Phoenix?"  
  
"Scully, don't you remember what the weather   
has been like around here for the past couple   
days? Don't the storms at every crime scene   
suggest to you the possibility of some   
electrical disturbance? What if, as a result   
of the large amount of copper in his body,   
Henry Phoenix can somehow harbor that   
electrical energy and effectively turn himself   
into one big source of ball lightning?"  
  
Scully humored him.  
  
"The result being?"  
  
"That if one of the properties of ball   
lightning is extreme heat, like you yourself   
said, Scully, Phoenix can manifest enough   
heat to set up his own rotisserie."  
  
"Mulder," Scully started, "I don't even know   
how to begin responding to this."  
  
"Scully, just do me a favor," Mulder   
interrupted her, "Don't let Henry Phoenix   
out of your sight."  
  
"That's not going to be much of a problem,   
Mulder," she replied, "He hasn't woken up   
since he arrived at the hospital…"  
  
Her response was preempted by the sound   
of an alarm wailing down the hall.  
  
"Scully," she heard Mulder say, "what's   
going on there? What's happening?"  
  
Scully didn't respond. She pulled the   
phone from her ear as she stopped and   
asked an orderly what was happening.  
  
"Fire in room 326, ma'am," he responded,   
"You need to get out of here as soon as   
possible."  
  
"Oh my God," Scully moaned as she ran down   
the hall to the former residence of Mr.   
Henry Phoenix. She could feel the heat on   
her face as she approached the room. It   
slapped her across the face like an angry   
demon from Hell.  
  
Shielding her eyes with the arm that still   
carried her cell phone, she braved the heat   
and looked into the room. She backed away   
and placed the phone back to her ear as a   
fireman directed her to the nearest   
staircase.  
  
"He's gone, Mulder," she stated simply,   
"Henry Phoenix is gone."  
  
Davey Crockett Motor Court  
6:18 P.M.  
  
Mulder glanced up through his thin   
wire-framed glasses as the sound of three   
sharp raps emanated from the wooden door.  
  
"It's open, Scully," he called, folding the   
glasses on top of the reports he had just   
finished scanning.  
  
Scully entered the room and closed the door   
behind her, placing her umbrella neatly   
beside the doorframe.  
  
"How did you know it was me, Mulder?" she   
asked, loosening the tie on her trench-coat   
and smoothing back her wind-rumpled hair.  
  
"Well, it was either you or the girl I hired   
from 1-900-CHICK," he replied, supporting his   
chin with a fist, "but you just missed her so,   
unless you're moonlighting as an escort…"  
  
Scully folded her arms in front of her.  
  
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth,   
Mulder?"  
  
Mulder looked amused.  
  
"Why, you wanna play house, Scully?"  
  
His voice grew soft and playful. He rubbed   
the space on the bed beside him.  
  
"C'mon, Scully, who's your daddy?"  
  
Scully put on her best feigned look of   
flirtatious savvy.  
  
"Mulder," she said sweetly.  
  
"Yes, Scully?" he answered.  
  
"Most daddies have something resembling at   
least a third-grade maturity level. Until   
you obtain that, I'm afraid this mama is   
going to be daddy-less."  
  
Mulder frowned with a mock look of fanciful   
whimsy.  
  
"Oh," he said simply, and then smiling with   
a twinkle in his eye, "You wanna play doctor?"  
  
"No," she answered, pulling a chair up beside   
the bed and seating herself next to him, "I've   
already played that game, and I've discovered   
some interesting details regarding Henry   
Phoenix's condition."  
  
The playful grin left his face.  
  
"What did you find?" he asked.  
  
"Before he pulled his grand disappearing act,   
I was able to obtain some samples of blood.   
I sent them to the lab and had them examined,   
but I have to tell you, Mulder, what I found   
is unlike anything that has ever been   
recorded in modern science."  
  
Mulder rested his elbows on his knees and   
folded his hands in front of his lips,   
nodding thoughtfully as Scully continued.  
  
"You see, Mulder," she began, lapsing   
easily into doctoral oratory, "copper is   
one of the elements necessary for the   
synthesis of hemoglobin, the protein found   
in red blood cells which controls the   
distribution of oxygen throughout the body.   
In normal red blood cells, copper is bound   
to ceruloplosmin and, for the most part,   
does not exist as a free ion."  
  
"But in Phoenix's body, it does," Mulder   
finished for her.  
  
Scully nodded her head in affirmation.  
  
"The copper found in Phoenix's blood is   
bound not only to the blood proteins, but   
also exists in ionic form. In addition,   
the red blood cells, themselves, appear   
to be present in a greater amount than   
that of ordinary blood. This, I suspect,   
is due to the fact that copper is also   
used in the synthesis of other proteins   
as well."  
  
Mulder arched his eyebrows.  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"Meaning that if there is excess copper   
present in Phoenix's body, it is possible   
that it contributes to the production of   
greater amounts of proteins found in the   
blood, and that increased production   
triggers the production of a greater   
amount of cells."  
  
Mulder rubbed his eyes.  
  
"And how would that affect Phoenix's   
condition?"  
  
Scully crossed her legs, folded her hands   
across her lap, and drew a deep breath   
into her lungs.  
  
"Well, theoretically, an increased   
production of red blood cells and blood   
proteins could cause an increased   
production of oxygen in Phoenix's body."  
  
Mulder shifted positions anxiously in   
his seat.  
  
"And since oxygen is not only required   
for fire to exist," he interrupted as   
his eyes began to shine, "but actually   
increases its ferocity, then the   
increased oxygen in Phoenix's blood   
could explain why the fires that he   
causes are able to generate such an   
intense heat."  
  
Scully arched her eyebrows slightly on   
her otherwise expressionless face.  
  
"Um…rriiggghhhttt."  
  
"No, Scully," he continued, "it   
makes perfect sense. The copper   
functions not only as a catalyst   
for protein and cell production,   
but also enables Phoenix to   
generate your so-called ball   
lightning, which is then   
converted into fire by the   
increased production of oxygen."  
  
"Mulder, that is simply   
physiologically impossible. In   
addition to assisting in protein   
production, copper serves a variety   
of other functions, including assisting   
in the production of melanin for skin   
pigmentation, repairing connective   
tissues, and forming cross-links in   
collagen and elastin present in the   
dermal layer and elsewhere. If Henry   
Phoenix was capable of doing what you   
claim, don't you think that other   
abnormalities in any of these functions   
would arise?"  
  
"Scully," he replied, leaning forward   
and placing a hand over hers, gently   
squeezing it for emphasis, "other   
abnormalities have arisen. You, yourself,   
said that copper aids in repairing   
connective tissue. Henry Phoenix must be   
capable of that very act. How else do you   
explain a man escaping with only mild smoke   
inhalation when the building and everything   
within its vicinity was burned to the ground?"  
  
"Good genes?"  
  
The beginnings of a smile appeared around   
the corners of her mouth.  
  
Mulder released his grip from her, put his   
hands behind his head, and leaned back   
against the headboard.  
  
"Scully," he asked, "does everything have   
to be a joke with you?"  
  
The stoic expression returned once more to   
her face.  
  
"Well, Mulder," she responded, "what have   
you been doing all day while I've been   
running around doing your dirty work for you?"  
  
Mulder smiled.  
  
"I'm glad you asked, Scully."  
  
He very loudly and deliberately cleared his   
throat as a familiar look of all-knowing   
intellect manifested itself upon his face.  
  
"Well, Scully," he began, "while you were   
uncovering the hidden mysteries of the   
'Great Copper Caper,' I was doing some   
digging of my own."  
  
"Digging into what, Mulder?"  
  
The expression remained unchanged as he   
asked her, "You going to let me finish?"  
  
Scully extended her hand in a widespread   
gesture of permission.  
  
"Please don't let me stop you," she responded   
dryly, "I can hardly contain my excitement."  
  
Mulder shifted back into teacher mode.  
  
"As I was saying before I was so rudely   
interrupted," he continued, rolling his   
ocean-green eyes in her direction, "while you   
were at the hospital, I took a little trip   
down to the Marfa precinct."  
  
"I know," Scully said, "You were calling me   
from the office when the fire alarm went off."  
  
Mulder shot her an ominous look of warning.  
  
"In-ter-rup-ting," he said, drawing out each   
syllable with a staccato-like ferocity.  
  
"Sorry," she replied.  
  
"Anyway," he began again, "I was at the precinct   
looking into Phoenix's priors. Turns out he has   
been arrested on four previous occasions - two   
counts of arson, one for disorderly conduct, and   
one count of public urination."  
  
Mulder smirked as the latter words departed from   
his lips.  
  
"Guess he was trying to put a fire out."  
  
"Mulder," Scully asked, "is that what you found   
to be so terribly interesting?"  
  
She swiveled her neck to one side and rested it   
on her shoulder.  
  
"If it is, I'm afraid I'm just not seeing the   
connection."  
  
"No, Scully," he responded, sitting up a little   
straighter as his back arched with excitement,   
"Although I always find public urination interesting,   
that is not what has me intrigued in this case."  
  
"Well, what did you find, then?" she asked.  
  
"After studying Henry's casefile, it occurred to me   
that the choice of his victims didn't add up. I   
found it curious that Phoenix should choose to   
target two seemingly unrelated persons for his late   
night fireworks display, one elderly, well-to-do   
woman and one middle-aged, poor man found at his   
home. It just didn't seem to fit. So, I did a   
little digging into the pasts of one former Mrs.   
Blanca Cortes and the latest victim, Mr. Joaquin   
Still-River. It turns out that Mr. Still-River was,   
in his living years, the fraternal uncle of our own   
little Henry. After the tragic and unexplained death   
of his parents, Still-River took Henry into his home   
and raised him as his own. Still-River didn't have   
much with which to provide the child, but he loved   
him dearly, and gave him everything that his heart   
desired. Yet, Henry's painful past seemed to stay   
with him. He began to do poorly in school, his   
grades suffered, he frequently initiated fights,   
and he was diagnosed with clinical depression.   
When Henry was six, Still-River pulled him from   
school and took a second job as a caretaker to a   
wealthy area resident. He tended the gardens,   
fixed broken pipes, and even babysat the woman's   
grandchild when the need arose."  
  
"Let me guess," Scully interjected, "Blanca Cortes."  
  
"Ding, that's right. Five-hundred points to the   
lovely red-headed doctor from Georgetown."  
  
"So his guardian babysat for the Cortes'," Scully   
thoughtfully verbalized, "What would be the   
motivation for Phoenix to run around killing the   
only two people who provided him with a stable   
home life?"  
  
"After Henry left his school, Still-River   
frequently brought the young boy over to play   
with Cortes' grandchild, Esperanza, who was   
approximately of the same age. The two children   
bonded instantly and it was as if Henry's problems   
disappeared overnight. They remained friends through   
the years until Esperanza's mother found out about   
Henry's past problems and forbade her to have any   
contact with him. Soon after, Henry, now sixteen,   
began to find trouble. He was well-known as a   
drunkard and a public spectacle. He was first   
arrested at age seventeen and three additional   
arrests occurred subsequently."  
  
"So he can't hold his liquor," Scully responded,   
"I'm still not seeing the connection to the deaths   
of Cortes and Still-River, or the reason that he   
started those fires."  
  
"According to the wife of our illustrious Detective   
Harris, it has recently been rumored that Henry's   
father was not a man without indiscretions, himself."  
  
Scully arched her eyebrow.  
  
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?"  
  
"Apparently not. It seems that while Mrs. Phoenix   
was in her second trimester with Henry, Mr. Phoenix   
was illustrating the finer principles of the birds   
and the bees to a beautiful tutee of his, Ms. Elisa   
Cortes, mother of Esperanza."  
  
Scully's eyes grew wide and shone brilliantly like   
the azure of a cloudless day.  
  
"So you're saying, then, that Esperanza Cortes is   
the biological half-sister of Henry Phoenix?"  
  
Mulder nodded his head.  
  
"And you think that he recently acquired this   
knowledge? That he would literally kill to be   
able to find her again?"  
  
Mulder's face grew solemn and pale, as though   
Death himself was staring him in the face. His   
whispered response was barely audible.  
  
"What man wouldn't, Scully?"  
  
Scully coughed a little and shifted uncomfortably   
in her seat.  
  
"So what's our next course of action, then?" she   
asked.  
  
Mulder threw his legs over the side of the bed   
and stood up.  
  
"We're going to go find Esperanza Cortes before   
Phoenix catches up with her."  
  
Scully's mouth fell agape as she leaned forward   
in her seat.  
  
"Mulder, you know the present location of   
Esperanza Cortes?"  
  
"I had Danny track her down this afternoon," he   
replied as he grabbed his coat off the back of a   
chair.  
  
Mulder walked towards the door, turned the knob,   
and held it open for his partner.  
  
"Let's go, G-woman."  
  
Scully smiled fondly at the name as she obediently   
stood and walked out the door.  
  
Esperanza Cortes Residence  
917 West Siren Street  
8:49 A.M.  
  
"This is it."  
  
Mulder pulled the car to a stop and shifted it   
into park. Directly in front of them, a burgundy   
brick pathway led to a double-story Victorian home   
with dark, green shutters and lush ivy. A   
white-picket fence enclosed a thriving lawn,   
surprisingly verdant for the arid climate.   
  
Mulder smirked as he unbuckled his seatbelt. He   
glanced over at his partner.  
  
"Ah, wedded bliss. Is that a songbird I hear   
cooing in the distance?"  
  
He opened his door and breathed in the fresh, cool   
air.  
  
"I wonder where the kids are. Fishing, climbing   
trees…playing house?"  
  
Scully slammed the door and placed her hands on   
her hip.  
  
"You're sick, Mulder," she told him.  
  
The sunlight bounced off the immaculate front   
bay window as they approached the path. Mulder   
unlatched the gate of the fence and held it open   
as Scully advanced, then closed it politely behind.   
By the time he had reached the front door, Scully   
had already rung the bell. She looked good,   
professional, with her arms crossed and her suit   
pressed. He couldn't help but think that she   
would do well living there, with her 2.5 children   
and 1.5 dogs. Of course, he had always assumed   
that she had a wild side, a part of herself that   
she seldom allowed anyone to see. There was that   
time that she had gotten a tattoo. Of course the   
whole almost-getting-killed thing had done away   
with that phase rather quickly…  
  
He was stirred from his reverie as the shimmering,   
whitewashed door pulled wide, revealing a rather   
striking young woman with long, silken, wavy,   
black hair.   
  
"Uhh…hi."  
  
The woman shot him a quizzical look.  
  
"Can I help you?" she asked, placing a dainty   
hand on the frame.  
  
"Esperanza Cortes?" Scully asked.  
  
"Yes?" the woman answered.  
  
Scully pulled her identification from her coat   
pocket and held it up at eyelevel.  
  
"Agent…"  
  
"Mulder," Mulder interrupted, holding out his hand   
to shake hers, "with the Federal Bureau of   
Investigation. I'd…"  
  
Scully placed her hand to her mouth as she coughed   
conspicuously.  
  
"Err…we'd like to ask you a few questions," he   
continued, "Would you mind if we came in?"  
  
"Of course not," she answered, her mocha eyes   
glistening with curiosity. She stepped back and   
allowed the agents to enter. She led them past   
a great foyer, with a pair of winding, wooden   
staircases, and into a comfortable,   
well-furnished room. She motioned for her   
unexpected guests to take a seat on a rather   
plush-looking crème-colored sofa. It   
appeared that she had her grandmother's taste  
in homes and furnishings.  
  
"Would you like something to drink?" she asked,   
"Some tea, perhaps? I just made a fresh batch."  
  
Scully shook her head.  
  
"But thank you for the offer," Mulder added,   
flashing her a smile.  
  
"Well, then," she replied, "would you mind   
telling me what brings you out here?"  
  
"We're sorry to have arrived at such an early   
hour, ma'am," Scully began gently, "but we got   
a little turned around outside of Austin." She   
rolled her eyes at Mulder, who shrugged   
hopelessly in response.  
  
"Well, I was never wrong when driving before   
today, was I?" he whispered, somewhat affronted.  
  
Scully turned her attention back to the woman   
seated opposite her.  
  
"I hope we didn't wake you," she continued.  
  
"No, no, of course not," Cortes answered in a   
half-southern, half-Spanish accent, which   
seemed to Mulder slightly reminiscent of a   
brook lapping gently over weathered rocks,   
"Most everyone around here wakes up close to   
dawn."  
  
Scully coughed uncomfortably and folded her   
hands between her knees. She leaned slightly   
forward in her seat, unconsciously positioning   
her body to stress the importance of the news   
she prepared to deliver.  
  
"Ms. Cortes…it is Ms. Cortes, isn't it?"   
Scully began.  
  
Cortes shook her head in affirmation.  
  
"Yes," she replied, "Ms. Cortes is fine."  
  
Mulder smiled sheepishly.  
  
Scully arched her eyebrow ever-so-slightly.  
  
"Anyway," she continued, "my partner and I   
are here concerning a case we are currently   
investigating."  
  
"What sort of case?" Cortes asked, her eyes   
wide with a mixture of fear and intrigue.  
  
"We are attempting to locate a former   
associate of yours, Ms. Cortes," Mulder   
interrupted, "a man who I am quite certain   
you have not been in contact with for some   
time, a Mr. Henry Phoenix."  
  
"Henry Phoenix?" she repeated softly. Her   
dark eyebrows furrowed slightly as she placed   
a caramel-tanned hand to her cheek. Her lip   
curled as she thought out loud. "Well, it   
must have been at least twelve years since   
I've seen him. Why are you looking for him?   
What has he done?"  
  
"He is wanted in connection with several fires   
that were set over the past few days," Scully   
interjected, "fires that resulted in death of   
two people you know."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Esperanza asked,   
a strange tone coming over her voice. The   
worry was apparent on her face.  
  
Mulder shifted, his body echoing the   
positioning of Scully's.  
  
"I am very sorry to inform you of this, Ms.   
Cortes," Mulder said, his voice strong and   
unquavering, yet filled completely with the   
utmost sympathy, "but two days ago, we found   
Blanca Cortes dead in her home."  
  
After a sharp intake of breath, Esperanza   
managed to eek out the question, "Abuelita?   
How?" Her chin began to quiver as the water   
filled behind her eyes.  
  
"It's not yet entirely clear," Scully answered,   
"but it seems that Henry Phoenix might be   
connected."  
  
"That's impossible," Esperanza stammered, "Henry   
loved Abuelita, she was like a mother to him.   
He would never hurt her, ever. I refuse to   
believe it."  
  
"There may be a reason why he would feel forced   
to act," Mulder told her gently.  
  
"And what would that be?" she asked sharply.  
  
"Were you ever aware of any rumors concerning   
your and Henry's relationship?"  
  
"No," she said impatiently, "why don't you   
educate me, since you seem to know more about   
me than I do of you."  
  
Mulder sighed deeply.  
  
"Ms. Cortes," he told her, "we have reason to   
believe that Henry Phoenix is your brother."  
  
"What?" she cried, "That is simply not possible."  
  
"How do you know?" he retorted, "What exactly did   
your mother tell you about your father? What  
kind of man was he?"  
  
Esperanza stood up from the sofa and slapped him   
so quickly across the face that even she was   
surprised. Her face was filled with rage as   
sputtered, "I never knew him, Agent Mulder, but   
I'm sure he was a better man than you. Now, I   
would appreciate it if you would get the   
hell out of my house right now."  
  
Mulder glanced up from his shoes, appearing   
incredibly dejected.  
  
"I'm sorry, Ms. Cortes," he apologized, "but I'm   
afraid you need to come with us for your own   
safety."  
  
"No, Mr. Mulder," she answered, "I'm afraid that   
if you don't get out of my house right now, I   
will have to show you out." She nodded her   
head in the direction of a very impressive rifle   
that was situated over the mantle of the cozy   
fireplace. "Now, what is your decision?"  
  
9:02 A.M.  
  
"No lo creo…que una cosa terrible decir…"  
  
Scully heard the barely intelligible mutterings   
of Esperanza Cortes, followed shortly thereafter   
by what she considered to be an overtly dramatic   
slamming of the front door behind them. She   
sucked in her cheeks as they proceeded from the   
house, and folded her arms in front of her. Her   
eyebrow was raised as she listened to the sound   
of wind blowing through the plentiful trees.   
They had only reached the third step when Scully   
hazarded a glance in Mulder's direction.  
  
"Don't even say it," he instructed her before her   
eyes even took him in.  
  
Mulder had a hand to his face, nursing his   
newly-reddened cheek. His gaze was fixated on   
the ground.  
  
"Hey," she said simply, holding her hands in   
front of her as if coming in contact with some   
invisible barrier. She listened in silence to   
the sound of their syncopated footsteps on the   
brick path, until she could no longer hold it in.  
  
"I'm really glad that you took control of things   
in there, Mulder. I don't know what I could have   
done without you."  
  
"Okay, okay," he replied sulkily, "let's have out   
with it. C'mon, I wanna hear the rest."  
  
"That's some way with women you've got there."  
  
Mulder nodded his head.  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"You really have a knack with race relations."  
  
He was still shaking his head. He stopped walking   
and his full lips seemed to have sunk into his   
mouth, showing only a thin sliver of their former   
selves.  
  
"Yeah. Uh huh. Are you finished?"  
  
She turned to him, arms crossed, a large smile   
plastered on her face.  
  
"Yeah," she replied, "I think that pretty much   
sums it up."  
  
"Good," he answered, pulling a pair of sunglasses   
from his pocket and slipping them gracefully over   
his eyes. Scully placed a hand above hers to   
shield them from the sun.  
  
"So what now?" she asked.  
  
"Scully, when's the last time we had a good   
old-fashioned stakeout?"  
  
"Together?" she asked.  
  
He nodded.  
  
Scully bit her lip and pulled a slip of hair behind   
her ear. She scrunched up her nose and gazed   
towards the heavens.  
  
"Let's see," she said, "last Christmas, old   
deserted mansion, you shot me, I shot you."  
  
Mulder smiled as the memory flashed through   
his mind.  
  
"Ah," he said, his beautiful green eyes   
sparkling, "it was magic for me, but was it   
good for you?"  
  
Scully just shook her head in response.  
  
"Well how 'bout we have a second go at it?"  
  
"Shooting each other?" Scully asked.  
  
Mulder chuckled to himself.  
  
"The stakeout," he replied.  
  
"Okay, Mulder," she answered, "but I was really   
looking forward to busting a cap in your ass." 


	4. The Stakeout

10:13 P.M.  
  
Mulder stuck his head outside the window   
and gazed up at the night sky. He breathed   
in the cool, crisp air, his dark hair   
blowing wildly in the shadows. As he   
lowered his eyes, he took in a new form   
- a sleek, tan duster tightly surrounding a   
slender waistline, held closely in check by   
a rap-around belt. One of the figure's   
well-manicured hands was resting elegantly   
on her hip, while the other lounged at her   
side, carrying a large, brown paper bag.  
  
"Hey there, stranger," Scully said, "you   
hungry?" She dangled the bag in front of   
his eyes and shook it playfully.  
  
"You have no idea," he answered, a strange   
intonation in his voice, as she walked   
around front of the car to the passenger's   
side.  
  
"What did you say?" she asked, as she   
opened the door, "I couldn't hear." She   
gestured to the wind, which was now howling   
wildly through the trees.  
  
"Uh, nothing," he responded, swiftly changing   
the subject, "Whatcha got in there?" He   
pointed to the bag.  
  
Scully smoothed her rumpled hair back behind   
her ears and unrolled the paper bag. She   
reached in and pulled out a meatball   
sandwich for him and an egg-salad sandwich   
for herself. Mulder accepted it greedily,   
unwrapping the cellophane like a hungry dog.  
  
"Thanks," he mumbled between bites, "what   
took you so long?"  
  
"Well," Scully replied indignantly, "what   
with the wind blowing, and walking ten blocks   
in high-heeled shoes, you're right, Mulder,   
it should have only taken two minutes, but I   
appreciate the concern."  
  
Her ire faded instantly when she looked over   
at him. He had eaten his sandwich so   
ravenously that he hadn't even noticed the   
marinara sauce that clung haphazardly to his   
chin. Scully laughed out loud and reached   
into the bag for a bundle of napkins.  
  
"What?" he asked.  
  
"You've got a little schmutz," she replied,   
dabbing motherly at his chin.  
  
"Thanks," he said affectionately, repaying   
her kindness with a winning smile, "Got   
anything to drink in that bag?"  
  
"Iced tea," she answered, pulling the drink   
from the bag and handing it over to him.  
  
Mulder took it gratefully, opened the tab,   
and took a long swig from the can.  
  
"You think it's strange?" he asked abruptly.  
  
"Think what's strange?" she answered, a   
little taken aback.  
  
"The weather," he replied, "how does it   
go from being such a sunny day to such a   
miserably overcast one?"  
  
"What are you saying, Mulder?" Scully   
asked between sips, "that you think Henry   
Phoenix is causing this?"  
  
"Well this is what it looked like at all   
the other crime scenes, didn't it?"  
  
He gazed up at the home of Esperanza Cortes.   
The last light had gone off about an hour ago.  
  
"You think he's causing changes in the   
weather pattern, Mulder? Really?"  
  
Mulder shrugged.  
  
"It's been known to happen," he said simply.  
  
They sat in silence as the wind picked up.   
The swirling gray clouds above grew angry   
and roared their impassiveness. A tree   
branch snapped as lightning danced across   
the sky. The booming of thunder came closer   
and closer, like the sound of timpani rising   
steadily louder above an orchestra.   
  
"Hey, Scully," Mulder asked suddenly, "if   
you were a tree, what kind of tree would   
you be?"  
  
"What?" she asked in response, almost   
spitting out her tea all over the dashboard,   
"What are you talking about, Mulder?"  
  
"I don't know," he answered, "I heard Barbara   
Walters ask it once. Just humor me."  
  
"Okay," Scully responded uncertainly. She   
bit her lip and thought hard.  
  
"I guess I would be an apple tree," she   
said after a few minutes had elapsed, "we   
used to visit this orchard in Seattle one   
time when my father was stationed in   
Washington. I loved everything about them,   
the look and smell of the blossoms, the way   
the blossoms gave way to fruit for us and   
all the animals. It was as though you could   
see the entire cycle of life right there in   
that one tree. I used to love swinging   
through the branches with Bill." She smiled   
fondly. "He used to get upset when I'd beat   
him to the top."  
  
Mulder nodded his head thoughtfully.  
  
"You know, Genesis describes the famous apple   
tree of Eden as the Tree of the Knowledge of   
Good and Bad," Scully continued, "A bite from   
its fruit gave Adam and Eve insight into the   
truth, but also paved the way for their exile   
from the Garden of Eden."  
  
"I think the path to find the truth of   
everything is like that," Mulder told her,   
"It comes with a terrible burden. If you   
decide to find the truth, you must be willing   
to accept the consequences that come with it,   
no matter how disturbing."  
  
He grew silent and morose.  
  
"On second thought," Scully said, "maybe I'm   
not an apple tree after all."  
  
Mulder grinned like a schoolboy.  
  
"No?" he asked, "Want me to take a bite of   
you and find out."  
  
"Mulder," she reproached him, but she had to   
turn her head so that he wouldn't see the heat   
she felt rising to her cheeks.  
  
"No," he said, after an uncomfortable silence,   
"I don't think you are either."  
  
"Oh no?" Scully asked, facing him once more,   
"So what kind of tree do you think I am?"  
  
"An oak," he said firmly.  
  
"An oak?" she asked, "Why an oak?"  
  
"They're strong, sturdy, dependable. Just like   
you, Scully. And they make really good headboards,   
too."  
  
Scully smiled.  
  
"Well, thank you for analyzing me, Mulder," she   
replied, "but let me guess what kind of tree   
you would be. Let me see now, how 'bout a redwood?"  
  
"Scully," he answered, making a disapproving   
clucking noise with his tongue, "It's not the   
size of the tree that matters, just the hardness   
of the wood-"  
  
He never got to finish the thought.  
  
"He's here Mulder," Scully cut him off, "Look."   
She pointed up to the window where Esperanza   
Cortes had extinguished the last light earlier   
that night. It was filled with flames.  
  
Mulder leapt out of the car and made a running   
start for the house.  
  
"Take the back," Mulder called to Scully, as   
he grabbed the gun from his hip and advanced   
toward the front door. Cradling it with both   
hands, he lifted the gun towards the swirling   
sky, his elbows locked firmly in position.   
With the utmost caution, he kicked the door   
open with his left leg and held the gun   
straight out in front of him. No one there.   
He checked to the left and to the right.   
Still no one. He jogged into the foyer as   
quickly as possible, not allowing himself to   
advance without warning in the face of   
recklessness. He proceeded up the stairs,   
gun pointed to the top of the banister. As   
he inched along, he could smell the smoke   
hanging like a thick fog over the house. The   
sound of a fire alarm shrieked in his ears, a   
terrible siren song beckoning him closer with   
fiery fingertips. Once he arrived at the   
summit of the staircase, he turned left and   
proceeded slowly down the hall. He could see   
the smoke now, billowing out of the third room   
on the right. With his left hand still   
clutching his weapon, he reached down and   
grabbed for the knob with his right palm.  
  
"Mother fucking piece of shit."  
  
He pulled back his hand with an angry moan.   
Glancing briefly at it, he felt the burning   
like a red-hot poker.  
  
"You stupid ass," he belittled himself,   
hanging the burnt hand listlessly at one   
side. It would be of no use to him now.   
  
Mulder took cover behind the wall of the   
doorway and readied his gun. Taking a deep   
breath, he brushed aside his childhood fear   
of fire and kicked the bedroom door open,   
like he had the front door. As the door   
opened wide, the flames hit him like a hot   
iron. He flung his body back against the   
hall and shielded his eyes with his arm.   
  
"Esperanza?" he shouted into the flames,   
"Ms. Cortes, are you in there?"  
  
There was no answer. As the wind howled   
through the second-story fireplace, the   
breeze briefly parted the tongues of fire,   
and multicolored balls of light could be   
seen floating peacefully through the air.  
  
"Esperanza, Esperanza?" he called again.  
  
This time, he heard a muffled scream in   
response, but it wasn't coming from the   
bedroom. Mulder quickly continued down   
the hall, checking each of the doors as   
he progressed. He heard a door slam at   
the other end and broke out into a full   
run to catch up with the assailant. The   
door at the end of the hall was closed   
and locked. Mulder attempted to break   
it down, but the heat was becoming far   
too intense. Clutching his shoulder, he   
placed an ear to the door and heard the   
sound of footsteps running down a wooden   
staircase. Mulder double-backed and ran   
down the steps to the entrance. He   
followed the hall back to the rear of the   
house, catching sight of one figure   
throwing another into a truck through the   
large, back windows. Mulder followed in   
pursuit, but his foot snagged on a large   
object that lay at the bottom of the rear   
staircase. He caught himself as he began   
to fall and glanced to see what blocked   
his path. A wisp of red hair grabbed his   
attention. Scully had been knocked   
unconscious. He quickly knelt down and   
checked her pulse. She was still alive.   
He ran a few paces and tried to shoot out   
the tires, but was unsuccessful. Pulling   
out his cell phone, he stored the numbers   
of the license plate, and went back to   
check on Scully.  
  
Marfa County General Hospital  
9:22 A.M.  
  
"Doctor, she's coming to."  
  
Scully lifted her eyelids, slowly, painfully,   
taking in the blurry image of a woman with   
dark hair in an achingly-too-white outfit.   
A soft, guttural moan escaped her lips as she   
placed a hand to her forehead. She closed   
her eyes, then opened them again, wider this   
time. She was in a hospital. A man was   
leaning over her. His stethoscope hung   
loosely at his shoulders and his fingers   
were cold to the touch as he checked her   
vitals. He held her eyelids open and shone   
a bright light in them. The stench of   
chlorine and bleach invaded her nostrils.  
  
"You can take that light out of my eyes,"   
she heard herself say, "I'm not suffering   
from a concussion."  
  
He instantly turned off the penlight, slightly   
taken-aback.  
  
"Excuse me," he replied a little indignantly,   
"but I do believe that you are in no position   
to tell me your condition."  
  
"Excuse me," Scully replied, just as indignant,   
"but I do believe that I am, seeing as how I   
am a trained medical doctor, and I can assure   
you that I have none of the symptoms - no   
amnesia, no nausea, no blurred vision, and my   
pulse is steady. Other than a pounding   
headache, I am in perfect physical health, so   
if you would kindly discharge me, it would be   
most appreciated."  
  
She heard him mutter something under his breath   
about not "asking for a second opinion" as he   
picked up her chart, and within five minutes,   
she was redressing herself and gathering her   
belongings. After slipping her watch gently   
over her thin wrist, she checked the time - 9:30.   
She had been unconscious. She remembered how she   
had gone around the back of the house the previous   
night, how she had caught sight of some of those   
strange lights in the sky, just drifting by the   
second story window. She remembered walking up   
to the backdoor steps, then nothing. He must   
have cold-cocked her, she decided.  
  
She threw the maroon jacket of her   
pants-and-jacket-suit-ensemble over her   
shoulders and reached for the cell phone   
in her pocket. She dialed Mulder's number   
and tapped her fingernails restlessly on a   
nearby table as she waited for him to pick   
up. After two rings, she heard his voice.  
  
"Mulder."  
  
"Mulder," she replied mechanically, "it's   
me." She breathed a sigh of relief, not   
knowing why his absence distressed her so.   
She was sure he was fine. How else would   
she have gotten to the hospital? Still,   
the sound of his soothing monotone had an   
instant calming effect.  
  
"Scully," he replied, his voice brightening,   
"glad to hear you're up and about."  
  
"Where are you, Mulder?" she asked, "what   
happened to you last night? Did you find   
Phoenix? He was there, Mulder, I saw the   
lights."  
  
"I know," he answered, "I saw them, too."  
  
He recounted the story of what transpired   
the night before, how he found the room on   
fire, how he watched as Henry made off with   
Esperanza, and how he had found her   
unconscious and had taken her to the   
hospital for treatment.  
  
"So I had Danny do a check on the license   
plate," he finished, "and he confirmed that   
it belongs to one Henry Phoenix. I had him   
do a check on homes and workplaces in the   
area where he might have fled. I have   
already searched five former residences and   
four places of employment of Phoenix's   
parents, Joaquin Still-River, and Blanca   
Cortes. I am currently on an unkempt,   
one-horse road heading for the Marfa   
Juvenile Detention Facility, a building   
which was abandoned nearly five years ago.   
I believe that's where I will find Henry."  
  
As Mulder spoke these last words, the path   
opened wide, revealing a decrepit, dark   
one-story building. The windows were   
boarded up, and those that weren't   
contained large holes, an obvious result of   
delinquent rock-throwing. Weeds overran   
what Mulder thought must have once been a   
rather nice-looking lawn and flowerbed. A   
shack just beyond the facility was in   
shambles, and a lone tree peeked out of the   
earth next to it, blaringly out-of-place in   
the otherwise completely naked terrain. A   
small, weathered tire hung sadly by a rope   
to a weakened, broken branch, the sole   
evidence of the children who had once played   
innocently on that very ground. Mulder   
turned off the car and stepped from it.  
  
"Mulder, I'm coming out there," Scully told him.  
  
"Are you sure you're up for it, Scully?" he   
asked, ambling slowly towards the shack, "I   
don't want you out here if you're not ready."  
  
He heard the familiar sigh on the other end   
of the line and instantly knew he should have   
known better.  
  
"Mulder," she said, irritation prevalent in   
her voice, "I am perfectly fine. I have been   
discharged from the hospital without incidence,   
and I will meet you at the Facility as soon as   
possible."  
  
"Good," Mulder answered, "I'm going to need your   
help."  
  
"Why, Mulder?" she asked, "What's wrong."  
  
"Henry Phoenix is here, Scully," he replied,   
"Call Detective Harris and get down here as   
quickly as you can."  
  
He placed the phone back in his coat pocket   
and stared silently at the object of his interest.   
Behind the shack sat a shabby little dark-blue   
pickup truck, the same truck he had seen driving   
away from Esperanza's. And on the side a different   
color could be seen distinctly, brightly - it was   
red, it was blood.  
  
Mulder wasted no time. He bolted straight towards   
the front doors and tried the knob. Locked. He   
jogged around the side of the building, checking   
each of the windows and each of the doors, looking   
for any point of entry. Nothing. He circled the   
building and found his way back to the front door.  
  
"There has to be some way in," he thought to   
himself, placing his palms against the cold steel.   
But not through there, it was bolted. He   
retraced his steps back to the truck, searching   
the ground for any evidence of their whereabouts.   
The ground was hard and dusty. There were no   
footprints. He circled the shack, coming upon a   
chipped, wooden door with faded blue paint. He   
tried the knob. It opened.   
  
He pulled his gun from behind his back and held   
it in his left hand, still nursing his right. He   
pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness.   
There was no one there. He searched the room for   
a light switch but found none. Glancing up, he   
noticed a long chain which led to a bulb at the   
top of the room. He grabbed the thin wire and   
pulled, expecting nothing. Light immediately   
filled the room, bringing dusty, old boxes and   
garden tools into focus. In the corner, a piece   
of cloth covered a grimy table, supported by a   
coverless book with yellow pages. On top of the   
table sat a plastic tray, filled with dirty bowls   
and glasses that still contained the remnants of   
someone's breakfast.  
  
"Cozy," Mulder mused aloud, "I wonder if there are   
any other rooms available in the area?"  
  
He crouched down and examined the floor. A small,   
red blotch drew his attention to a rectangular   
portion of the floor that did not seem to match   
the other hardwood panels. Mulder fit his fingers   
in the rectangular grooves and pried them up. The   
floor gave way to a concrete staircase which   
descended into blackness.   
  
"There's never a white rabbit around when you need   
one," he muttered sardonically.  
  
Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, he flicked it   
on and advanced slowly, cautiously down the steps.  
  
Left foot. Stop. Right foot. Stop.  
  
The echoing of his every footfall seemed to   
reverberate off the walls, a tympanic crescendo   
pounding through his brain in the disconcerting   
silence. He hesitated ever-so-slightly with every   
step, drawing in a painful breath of stale air each   
time his foot landed on the cold stone slabs.  
  
Left foot. Stop. Right foot. Stop.  
  
Mulder inched through the darkness, balancing   
himself by placing a palm against the wet rock to   
his right. Every once in awhile, his pace was   
unexpectedly halted as he felt his hand brush some   
fuzzy creature, and leaped back, repulsed, but once   
he convinced himself that it was merely some form   
of mossy overgrowth, his pulse began to slow and   
he continued along his way. His flashlight   
provided the only beacon of light in the   
desperately thick ink that surrounded him, an   
inanimate Virgil leading the wondering modern-day   
Dante further and further into the deepest circles   
of the recesses of Hell.  
  
After what seemed an eternity, the stairway   
finally ended its corkscrew descent. Mulder   
shined his light in all directions. The   
staircase had given way to a tiny room, small   
enough that it could be filled by about four   
people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He scanned   
the wall, searching out every nook and cranny that   
might hide a hidden block or panel.   
  
"It has to be here somewhere," he mused aloud,   
"There's no other way they could have gotten in,   
not unless Phoenix could have psychically   
transported himself into the center."  
  
For a split second, Mulder seriously considered   
the possibility, but then decided against it,   
shook his head, and set back to the task at hand.   
After fifteen minutes, he had still found nothing.   
He was about to abandon all hope and retreat   
dejectedly back up the stairs when the light fell   
upon a stone that seemed slightly discolored in   
comparison with the rest of the rocks. Placing   
his hand against the coldness, his fingers traced   
the outline of the stone. It seemed to jiggle   
slightly beneath the touch of his hands. Placing   
the flashlight between his teeth, Mulder shined   
the light on the stone and put both palms against   
the rock, one hand on each side. Placing his   
fingers along the crevices, he managed to dislodge   
it little by little as he waited with bated breath.   
The stone crept slowly from its hiding space.   
Mulder bent down and placed it carefully on the   
ground by his feet, then stood up and anxiously   
peered into the chasm. Behind the well-placed   
stone was hidden a lever, one usually reserved for   
Nancy Drew novels or old James Bond movies. After   
throwing the switch, Mulder stepped back, waiting   
on cue for the inevitable. He listened as creaky   
hinges swung, unlocking some hidden bolts and   
latches, and watched as the whole stone panel to   
his left gave way to another dark passage.  
  
Mulder couldn't mask his boyish amazement. He   
watched with widened eyes as the lone word, "Cool,"   
came to his lips. The monosyllabic phrase was all   
he could muster from his immense and articulate   
vocabulary. He was for once glad that Scully was   
not with him. He could almost hear the sardonic   
tone in his ears, mocking him for his childlike   
whimsy.  
  
He took a brief moment to mentally prepare himself   
for what lay ahead. Then, he shone the light into   
the dark and proceeded into the lengthy hall.  
  
He had only gone a couple of feet when an immense,   
unseen cobweb grabbed at his face. He moaned in   
disgust and immediately clutched at the clingy   
silken threads. He successfully removed it, but   
not before he felt the strong fangs of a spider   
breaking his skin.   
  
"Ow," he cried, flicking the pesky arachnid from   
his face, "mother fucking piece of shit!"  
  
After gently caressing the hot bump that was already   
beginning to rise over his gentleman's stubble,   
Mulder continued on his way. The darkness seemed   
to grow about him, enveloping him, suffocating him,   
as if he were Marlow, traveling deeper and deeper   
into a night of his own mind's creation. The   
flashlight appeared to grow dimmer, proving more   
and more ineffectual against the brooding, glooming   
darkness. Mulder continued walking another ten   
minutes, about the length of a football field,   
until the thin light illuminated yet another spiral   
set of stairs. He proceeded up the staircase and   
placed an ear to the wooden door that stood stately   
at its summit. He heard no sound. Grabbing the   
circular, iron handle, he opened the door a crack   
and peered cautiously outward. The doorway opened   
to another hallway composed of large, thick stone   
blocks. Tattered, worn draperies suggested to Mulder   
that someone had at one time attempted to make the   
home hospitable, though lack of money or desire to   
keep up the place caused it to be a rather cold,   
castle-like environment in which to grow up. The   
thick moss on the wall gave the impression that it   
had not been used for years, but two sets of   
footprints visible in the mountain of dust on the   
floor proved otherwise. To his left, Mulder noticed   
some boarded-up windows. Prying off one of the   
warped pieces of wood, he glanced out through the   
streaked glass and saw the truck still sitting calmly   
by the shack. He was right. The stairway had led   
inside the juvenile detention center.   
  
"It must have been used as a means of underground   
evacuation," he surmised, glancing at the now   
unlocked padlocks which at one time must have   
been heavily guarded.  
  
At that moment his thoughts turned elsewhere as   
the quiet murmuring of multiple voices could be   
heard echoing through the hall. Mulder placed   
the board at his feet and followed the sound of   
the voices. Putting the flashlight in his pocket   
and pulling the gun from his hip, Mulder peered   
around the corner of the doorway from whence the   
voices emanated.  
  
He was staring at a large room, the size of a   
basketball court, which had once been a rather   
uncomfortable-looking cafeteria. Lengthy tables   
were situated in long rows of ten and unused trays   
were still stacked neatly on the back counter. It   
looked like a ghost town. It was as if, one day,   
everyone had just decided to get up from lunch and   
leave. The quiet, desolate atmosphere was in stark   
contrast to the very lively and heated discussion   
been propagated in the middle of the room.  
  
"So you kill her? For what? To get to me? Did   
you honestly think that that would endear you to   
me?"  
  
Esperanza Cortes was seated atop one of the tables,   
her long, black hair flowing like a river down the   
curvature of her back. Her feet were resting   
lightly on a faded orange bench so that her knees   
were pulled close to her chest, folded almost   
directly underneath her chin. Henry Phoenix was   
pacing in front of her, visibly upset by the manner   
in which things were progressing.  
  
"I did it all for you, Esperanza. You used to tell   
me how unhappy you were, how all you wanted was to   
get away from your family. They way they controlled   
you, they way they wouldn't let you do anything that   
didn't maintain their high-society style of life.   
You just wanted freedom, Esperanza, and I gave that   
to you, I gave it to you because you're my family,   
my blood, and I love you."  
  
Phoenix stopped pacing and stood directly in front   
of her. He bent over her and clasped his hands over   
hers. His face wore a familiar expression of anguish   
and despair, one that he himself had borne quite   
frequently throughout the years.  
  
"We can leave here, Esperanza, get away from the   
pain. Start a new life somewhere else. There's   
nothing here for either of us anymore, nothing   
but the past. It'll be you and me, brother and   
sister, the two of us, just like the old days.   
You were my best friend. We can have that again.   
We don't need anyone else."  
  
A thin smile appeared on his lips as the   
recollection danced through his mind, exposing   
the crooked, yellow teeth hidden behind his mouth.  
  
Esperanza's head had been folded in her hands as   
she listened to him, obscuring her face from Mulder's   
view. She slowly lifted her chin and her eyes became   
level with his. He noticed for the first time the  
river of blood that was streaming down her cheek,  
mixed with the remnants of plentiful tears that she  
had shed. Still, her face was set with a fierce anger   
that betrayed her conflicting emotions. Her dark   
eyes were fixed, her gaze, cold and unwavering.  
  
"You're right," she said, "you were my best friend.   
Even when papá and mamá told me to stay away from   
you, I wouldn't listen. I told them that underneath   
all of your misgivings, you had a good soul.   
Abuelita defended you, and you killed her,   
murdered her in cold blood. Why would I ever   
consider going anywhere with you, let alone choose   
to look at your face for one second longer?"  
  
The smile turned quickly into a scowl of disapproval.  
  
"Because I'm your brother," he answered, grabbing   
so forcefully at her forearm that she winced in   
pain, "I'm your blood, and there's no greater bond   
than that."  
  
Mulder felt the rage rise so quickly within himself   
that he was barely unable to control his next actions.  
  
"Federal agent," he said, jumping out from his hiding   
space behind the door, "stop right there."   
  
Esperanza was so spooked by the unexpected   
interruption that she nearly fell off the   
table. She and Phoenix both turned and faced   
the man who had a government-issued gun pointed   
at their heads.  
  
"That's enough, Phoenix," he yelled,   
walking into the room, "Put your hands   
above your head and step away from Esperanza."  
  
His footsteps echoed like two stones sliding   
in a crypt. Phoenix relinquished his grip on   
Esperanza as Mulder advanced towards them but   
he did not back away.  
  
"Put your hands up," he repeated, this time   
more forcefully, "and step away."  
  
Phoenix only glared at him.  
  
"You think you can come in here and tell me   
what to do?" he snarled, "You don't know who   
you're dealing with."  
  
He seemed to mutate before Mulder's very eyes,   
his face taking on a grotesque, ugly form, as   
if his internal hatred had become externalized.  
  
"On the contrary," Mulder reciprocated, his   
hazel eyes taking on a hard, amber hue, "I   
know exactly who I'm dealing with - a   
psychotic murderer with a strange penchant   
for frying up anyone who stands in his way."  
  
Phoenix's eyes began to widen as he realized   
that he had been found out.  
  
"That's right," Mulder continued, "I know   
everything. Tell me, what did your adopted   
father, Mr. Joaquin Still-River, see before   
he died? Did the man who took you in and   
raised you as one of his own say anything   
to you before you set him on fire?"  
  
Phoenix did not respond, but narrowed his   
eyes until all that remained were two yellow,   
python-like slits.  
  
"What about Blanca Cortes? What did she say   
to you? Was there fear in her eyes? Did she   
beg for mercy before you incinerated her?"  
  
Esperanza released a gentle hiccough of sorrow   
before her eyes plummeted to the floor. She   
began weeping softly to herself. Henry looked   
lovingly at her and then turned his gaze coldly   
back to Mulder.  
  
"Why didn't you burn her house, too?" Mulder  
continued, "Was it because it was all a game  
for you, see if you could kill her without  
scorching the furniture?"  
  
"You upset my sister," Henry interrupted, his   
voice filled with a lack of emotion that   
reminded Mulder of the most heinous serial   
murderers that he often interviewed from his   
days back on the Violent Crimes Division, "I   
told her that I wouldn't let anyone upset her.   
You made me lie. Now you're going to pay."  
  
"Mr. Phoenix, I will ask you this one more   
time, step away from Ms. Cortes or I will be   
forced to take lethal action."  
  
But Phoenix wasn't listening. A look of calm   
clouded his face as he shut his eyes and raised   
his hands to chest-level. Esperanza halted her   
tears and glanced at her brother. An expression   
of widespread fear formed quickly on her face.  
  
"Agent Mulder," she screamed, "you have to get   
out of here. Right now. You must go. He's   
going to hurt you."  
  
Mulder didn't move or even avert his eyes. He   
watched with amazement as Henry's pale,   
vitamin-deficient skin took on a reddish hue   
as his whole body began to convulse. He   
pulled his hands apart so that his palms   
faced each other, his long, wiry fingers   
curving inward. Thin sparks of electrical   
energy shot through the air, jumping from   
one hand to the next. Suddenly, Phoenix   
clapped his hands together and soft,   
feather-like wisps of different colors   
were summoned forth from his skin.   
  
"Agent Mulder," Esperanza cried in   
desperation, "get out of here now!"  
  
It was too late. The wisps coiled upon   
themselves and formed into spherical balls   
of light. His eyes abruptly shot open, as   
quick as a bullet being fired from a rifle.   
He unclasped his hands and held the right arm   
straight out. Before Mulder knew what was   
happening, the lights came whirring directly   
at him.  
  
10:41 A.M.  
  
For the first time, Mulder noticed the sound   
of thunder. Strange he hadn't heard it before,   
but then again, being unconscious wasn't exactly   
conducive to the comprehension of sensations.  
  
"Unconscious. I was unconscious."  
  
It was odd, the way his mind worked, or the   
way any mind worked, for that matter. He had   
spent all of those years studying psychology,   
mentally connecting the thoughts and actions   
of men that, to others, would have seemed   
arbitrary and discontinuous. It was a   
practice that would later serve him well in   
his profiling capabilities. And yet he could   
still only comprehend but a meager proportion   
of the workings of the brain. There was still   
so much that was left to be uncovered, so much   
hidden in the depths of the undiscovered   
unconscious.  
  
Unconscious. He had been unconscious.  
  
Mulder gently lifted his eyelids as the booming,   
thunderous cadence jumped from cloud to cloud   
somewhere above his head. He could almost hear   
the pain pounding between his temples. It was   
so loud, so, so loud. As the blurry images that   
his eyes observed began to join together into one   
coherent picture, he noticed the dingy, gray,   
expansive floor. He was still in the cafeteria,   
laying on the floor. He attempted to right   
himself, but was unable to move his arms. They   
were tied very tightly, very painfully behind   
his back, using some sort of leather restraint.   
He slowly began to realize the pain wasn't just   
as a result of the awkward positioning. It was   
due to something else, something different. He   
tried to move his head, but couldn't. It felt   
strange. Half of it was ice cold, sitting   
heavily on the floor. The other side was facing   
the ceiling, and comprised the opposite extreme,   
hot and painful.   
  
The dull pain was much worse than the heat. If   
he tried really hard, he could forget about the   
intense, scalding sensation for a moment and   
concentrate on something else. But the pain was   
omnipresent, unending. He could never get away   
from it, no matter how aloof he allowed his mind   
to become. Mulder suddenly realized it was the   
same feeling he had on his arms, on his hands, on   
his chest.   
  
He had been burned. Badly.   
  
He couldn't really recall how it had happened.   
He remembered someone screaming, a woman? Then   
colors. Then nothing. Blackness. Now the pain.  
  
Mulder once again tried to sit up, pulling his   
legs to his chest in an effort to counterbalance   
the weight of his upper body. He was only able   
to move his torso two feet above the ground before   
a spasm of pain overwhelmed him. He collapsed to   
the floor as a groan of anguish escaped his lips.   
He laid there, unmoving, until the waves of agony   
subsided. After taking in a few deep breaths, he   
tried again. This time, he wasn't even able to   
moan before the spasms wracked his body. His head   
slammed hard into the floor, causing a sound   
reminiscent of the slapping of hands to go   
cascading through the room and out through the   
empty hallway. Mulder didn't have time to think   
as his body succumbed to its injuries, convulsing   
with unmitigated rage at the mistreatment.  
  
When he opened his eyes, all he could see was   
the red. All he felt was the cold.  
  
"Oh, God, I'm bleeding to death," he said   
in his mind, or was it out loud? He couldn't   
be sure where his thoughts began and his   
words ended. He was so cold.  
  
"Mulder," he heard a muffled voice cry   
through the red, "Mulder, don't move."  
  
The red became separated and all that he   
saw was the white. Cold. So cold.  
  
"Oh my God," he thought, "It's the white   
light. I'm going towards the white light."  
  
The last thing he saw before he lost   
consciousness was a familiar cutting,   
crystal blue, and he knew that he would   
be safe.  
  
Marfa County General Hospital  
6:18 P.M.  
  
Mulder slowly opened his eyes, attempting to   
adjust them to the bright, white lights, as   
the sound of a heart monitor beeped   
rhythmically somewhere near his ear. He   
noticed a blurry object lean over him, and   
then heard a voice say, "Agent Scully, he's   
awake."  
  
"Thank God," he heard his partner mumble as   
her heels clicked rapidly to his side, "You   
really had us scared for a minute there,   
Mulder." He allowed himself to play the   
dutiful patient to her doctor as she   
thoroughly checked his vitals.  
  
"Us?" he replied in a soft, raspy monotone,   
"Are you trying to tell me that there's   
someone else out there who cares whether or   
not I get fricasseed? Scully, I'm touched."  
  
"Yeah, in the head."  
  
She smiled as she removed the stethoscope   
from her neck and placed it in her ears.   
Mulder tried to smile, but the right side   
of his face felt like it was being pulled   
apart.  
  
"It's bad, isn't it?" he said so suddenly   
it surprised her.  
  
Scully voice quavered as she attempted her   
lie.  
  
"No," she smiled, "you look fine, Mulder.   
You'll be back to that raging social life   
in no time."  
  
"You're lying, Scully," he told her, and   
then, "Oh, cold."  
  
"Sorry," she responded, removing the   
stethoscope from his chest to her lips,   
blowing two hot breaths onto the cold metal,   
and replacing it over his lungs.  
  
"How do you know, anyway?" she asked.  
  
"Your face always does this thing," he   
answered, "It goes cold, emotionless…oh   
yeah, and your eyes do this freakish not   
blinking thing."  
  
"That's not true," she said heatedly and   
unblinking.  
  
"Right. And I'm not the key player in a   
global conspiracy to undermine the legitimacy   
of alien abductees in an effort to contain   
the knowledge that colonization of this   
planet by extraterrestrials is inevitable."  
  
Scully removed the medical instrument, placed   
her hand on her hip, and arched her eyebrows.   
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mulder. I missed the memo   
that said that the heliocentric theory is   
incorrect and the world now revolves around   
you."  
  
He sucked in a deep breath and rolled his eyes.  
  
"Mulder, can't you ever get your point across   
in less than five words?"  
  
"Scully, I think I love you."  
  
"That's six words, Mulder."  
  
Matched, if not defeated in his game of   
intellectual banter, Mulder shrugged off   
her words and began another line of   
questioning.  
  
"How did I get here?"  
  
Scully pulled a stool close to his bedside   
and seated herself with royal poise.  
  
"After I got off the phone with you, I drove   
to the Juvenile Detention Center. I found   
your car by the side of the road and   
investigated the grounds. I noticed some   
deep tire tracks by the shack out front and   
located the panel leading underground once I   
got inside. I followed it and found you   
lying in the cafeteria, unconscious and your   
hands tied with a belt behind your back.   
You were suffering from convulsions and went   
into shock. I phoned an ambulance, which   
brought you here."  
  
"Was there anyone at the Facility when you   
arrived there?" he interrupted.  
  
Scully shook her head.  
  
"I'm afraid not," she answered sadly, "There   
was no sign of either Henry Phoenix or   
Esperanza Cortes when I arrived. I had the   
Marfa police force comb the entire center.   
They are no where to be found."  
  
She paused and took a deep breath before she   
continued her account of the proceedings.  
  
"Mulder, you had second-degree burns over   
sixty percent of your body. We hydrated you   
and dressed your wounds. You're going to   
have to remain as still as possible for the   
next couple of days, as we had to cover your   
burns in synthetic fibers to protect against   
bacterial infestation."  
  
Mulder closed his eyes as he spoke.  
  
"How long am I going to be out of commission?"  
  
"At least a couple of weeks," came the answer,   
"The doctors are taking every precaution to   
ensure your full recovery."  
  
He shifted slightly and opened his eyes wide,   
staring into hers. He had a look of   
determination on his face, one which Scully   
had seen all too frequently on their   
investigations into the paranormal.  
  
"Scully," he told her earnestly, without a   
hint of sarcasm in his voice, "I need you to   
find Esperanza for me. I need to know that   
she's safe, that her brother didn't succeed   
in destroying her emotionally, as I fear he   
has, that his quest to find her didn't end   
in disaster."  
  
He mustered up all his strength and lifted his   
hand out to hers, gritting his teeth through   
the pain.  
  
"I'm relying on you, Scully. I know you won't   
let me down." 


	5. Results and Ramifications

9:55 P.M.  
  
"Where are you, Scully?"  
  
"Heading east on Route 7."  
  
Scully carefully cradled the phone   
between her ear and the nook of her   
neck as her right hand joined the left   
already on the steering wheel. She had   
been checking out all of Phoenix's old   
haunts ever since she left Mulder's   
hospital room earlier that night.   
  
"I've checked everywhere, Mulder," she told   
him with much frustration, "I've tried old   
classmates, bars, strip clubs. I even   
rechecked the Juvenile Detention Facility,   
but he's nowhere to be found."  
  
She could almost hear Mulder smiling through   
the connection as he said, "You went to a strip   
club, Scully? Just for investigative purposes,   
I'm sure."  
  
Scully scowled.  
  
"Actually, Mulder," she replied haughtily, "I   
was looking for information to add to the case   
file that I've been collecting since our first   
assignment together. You know, the one that   
hopes to discover if there is at least one   
triple-x facility in these contiguous   
forty-eight states that you have not yet visited."  
  
Mulder was, indeed, half-grinning through the   
side of his face that he could move without fear   
of painful repercussions.  
  
"So what are the results?"  
  
Scully was now smiling as well.  
  
"Currently, the file still remains open."  
  
He shook his head slightly as he saw a nurse   
enter the room out of the corner of his eye,   
her face hidden behind a stack of fresh, white   
linens. He was too busy chatting to notice her   
close the door and lock it behind her.  
  
"Not those results," he explained, "Phoenix.   
What are the results with Phoenix?"  
  
"Well, other than learning some interesting facts   
regarding his alcoholic and sexual habits, there's   
nothing new to report. I've put out an A.P.B. on   
both Henry and Esperanza. I've got the Marfa   
police scouring the countryside, as well as   
cooperation from our local Bureau friends in Austin.   
Hopefully, they will be in custody by daybreak."  
  
"Agent Mulder, I need to change your sheets."  
  
He didn't look up as he told his partner, "I've got   
to go, Scully. Keep me posted." He closed his cell   
and placed it on the movable table over his bed.  
  
He grinned as he looked up at the woman with the   
painfully white uniform.  
  
"Okay nurse, I'm ready for my sponge-bath…"  
  
The words weren't out of his mouth before he   
recognized the dark, luxurious hair and the warm,   
chocolate eyes. It was Esperanza.  
  
"Agent Mulder," she pleaded, "I need your help."  
  
"Esperanza," he said, visibly startled, his mouth   
slightly agape, "what are you doing here? Where's   
Henry?"  
  
"I don't know," she answered hastily. Her chin   
was quivering, and her eyes were red and puffy.   
"I'm so sorry. I just didn't know where else to go."  
  
"It's okay," he told her, steadying his voice into   
a soothing tone, "Please sit down and tell me what   
happened."  
  
She pulled up a chair and sat by his bed. She was   
wringing her hands as she began her story.  
  
"When you left my home this morning, I was very upset.   
I began to think about the past, about certain things   
that had always seemed odd at the time, but looking   
back seem to make a lot of sense. I had always felt   
a connection to Henry, a sort of bond that seemed much   
closer than any friendship. I couldn't figure out why   
my parents so opposed our being friends. I mean, I   
knew that he had been in some trouble, but my mother   
always trusted me to make the correct decisions in life.   
After thinking about it for some time, I remembered an   
event that happened when I was about twelve years old.   
During one of Henry's visits, my mother and Abuelita   
got in a very heated argument. This wasn't uncommon.  
They often fought with one another, but this disagreement   
seemed particularly bad. I remembered that I had heard my   
mother say something about Henry, something about his   
mother, and then glass breaking. After that, it seemed   
like whenever Henry came over, there were arguments just   
like that. I began to think that maybe what you said was   
true, that maybe my mother had had an affair with Henry's  
father, and that he was my half-brother."  
  
She took a deep breath as Mulder offered her a glass of   
water left over from the inedible hospital "dinner" that   
he had hardly touched. She stifled a sob, took a few   
sips, thanked him, and continued.  
  
"I called my mother and confronted her. She lied to me   
at first, but I pressed her. She finally told me the   
truth, that Henry was my brother, and that's why she had   
attempted to keep me away from him, to keep my from   
finding out the truth. We spoke for about an hour. I   
hung up and put myself to bed. I finally fell asleep but   
was awakened by a noise in my room. I woke up and found   
Henry watching over me. He asked me to come with him,   
and we got into an argument."  
  
She took another breath and her eyes darted anxiously   
about the room.  
  
"That's when he did…that thing, you know, the thing   
with the colors? My room caught on fire, and he   
grabbed me. On the way out, we went past your partner.   
I guess Henry had knocked her out."  
  
She interrupted her own soliloquy to ask if his partner   
was okay. After Mulder nodded his head, she continued.  
  
"He threw me in the truck and took me to that filthy   
place. We argued some more, then you walked in. He   
knocked you out, and I begged him to stop. He wanted   
to kill you, Agent Mulder. He said he wanted you to   
burn for all your sins. He had this terrible look in   
his eyes, a look I had never seen before, an   
indescribable rage. I knew then that he was no longer   
the man that I had known as a girl. I kept begging him,   
'Please, please stop,' and he finally turned, looked at   
me, and stopped hurting you. After you blacked out, he   
told me that we needed to get away, that the cops would   
be coming right after us. He drove us as far as he   
could get, but we needed to stop at a gas station   
because there wasn't much gas left in his car. When he   
went inside to pay, I ran as far as I could and hid in   
the bushes. Once, he almost found me, but then he began   
looking in the opposite direction. A tractor trailer   
came up the road and picked me up. I hitchhiked here.   
I figured they would have found you by then and would   
have taken you to the hospital."  
  
"You did very well, Esperanza," Mulder told her, "You   
were very resourceful, quick on your feet." He lifted   
his hand and patted hers. "It'll be alright," he said,   
"You're safe now."  
  
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, darkness   
flooded the room. The electricity had gone out in   
the entire hospital. Mulder pushed the call button   
to send for a nurse, but there was no response. The   
lights flickered on as the backup generator sent   
electricity coursing through the building.  
  
"I wonder what that was all about?" he pondered aloud.   
It was then that he heard the rumblings of thunder   
outside his window. Soon, rain was beating down   
upon the roof, sounding like waves crashing   
against a stony jetty.  
  
Esperanza stood up and looked out the window.   
When she turned around to face him, her eyes   
met his. They were filled with fear.  
  
"I have a very bad feeling about this," Mulder   
told himself, then attempting to comfort   
Esperanza, he smiled and said, "Don't worry.   
That lock is secure. There's no way he's   
getting through it, especially with a hospital   
full of doctors and nurses, not to mention the   
entire police force who's looking for him.   
He's probably already been picked up. Don't   
worry, you're safe."  
  
As he spoke, the keylock turned upright. The   
door opened slowly and a man wearing hospital   
scrubs stepped in, locking the door behind him.   
He turned around, his hair dripping wet, and   
faced the two of them, holding up a set of   
what looked like janitor's keys on a ring.  
  
"You're right," Henry said, a terrible gleam   
in his eye, "she's safe, but who's going to   
save you?"  
  
"Henry," Mulder said, "I want you to let   
Esperanza go. I know you don't want to hurt   
her. Just let her walk out the door and   
everything will be okay."  
  
Phoenix's lips curved into a snake-like   
smile. His yellow teeth glistened in the   
light as he threw his head back and let   
out a blood-curdling cackle, one reserved   
for the deepest of the maniacal or the   
clinically insane.   
  
"I don't think you understand, Agent Mulder,"   
Henry said, laughing intermittently through   
the words, "I'm not here for her, I'm here   
for you."  
  
"Well you can have me," he answered, "Just   
don't hurt her."  
  
"I wasn't planning on it," Henry continued,   
"You see, everything was fine before you came   
along. Esperanza and I were friends. We   
loved each other, before we even knew that we   
were brother and sister. But then you come   
along and fill her head with lies about me,   
tell her terrible, terrible things about me   
that I didn't really do."   
  
As his words progressed, his voice took on a   
more menacing tone, sneering and angry.   
Mulder looked over at the table where his   
phone was still laying. He could pick it up,   
but who would he call? He wouldn't even be   
able to dial before Henry got to him. He   
wished he could feel his gun securely in his   
hand, but he was sure that Scully had kept a   
hold of it for safekeeping. There was   
nothing in the room that could be used as a   
weapon. Just some chairs and the telephone   
in the corner. He reached his thumb down   
and cautiously pressed the call button, hoping   
that the generator had kicked the power back   
into the device. The action was not cautious   
enough. When Henry saw what Mulder was doing,   
he once again began his streak of laughing.  
  
"It won't work," he said, "I disconnected the   
wire."  
  
"Henry," Esperanza pleaded, "please don't.   
I'll go away with you. We can start a new   
life, just like you wanted. It'll be you and   
me against the world. Just please, please do   
not hurt anybody else."  
  
"You will go with me," Henry told her, as he   
began walking towards Mulder, "as soon as I   
take care of a little problem."  
  
Mulder watched helplessly as Henry's face   
twisted from hideous to calm, as he shut his   
eyes, and raised his hands to his chest.  
  
"How far do you think you're going to get,   
Henry?" Mulder asked, "We've got every cop in   
Texas looking for you, plus the F.B.I., not to   
mention the fact that you're standing in a   
hospital. How long do you think it'll be   
before a doctor or nurse comes back to check   
on me?"  
  
"Don't you worry about a thing, Agent Mulder,"   
he said, "They're all taking a much needed nap,   
and by the time they all wake up, we'll already   
be out of the country."  
  
"You crazy fuck!" Mulder screamed, "You'll never   
get away with this! If it's the last thing I do,   
I will hunt you down and personally throw your   
ass in prison!"  
  
Henry's skin reddened, and his body was wracked   
with spasms. When the spasms ceased, he pulled   
his hands shoulder-length apart.  
  
"Henry," Esperanza yelled, "please don't do this."  
  
Henry continued as though he hadn't heard a word   
she said. He clapped his hands together, and the   
colored lights exploded from his hands.  
  
"This will be the last thing you ever do, Agent   
Mulder," he said, raising his towards his victim,   
"Goodbye."  
  
"No!" Esperanza screamed, "I won't let this   
happen!" Before even she realized what she   
was doing, Esperanza held her arms straight   
out towards her brother. Balls of light went   
hurtling out of her hands. Henry didn't scream   
as the lights hit him, nor as the force of their   
impact sent his body careening ten feet towards   
the window. There was the breaking of glass, and   
then nothing. Just the steady rhythm of the rain   
beating sadly against the building, and the sound   
of police sirens in the distance.  
  
Two Weeks Later  
J. Edgar Hoover Building  
10:13 A.M.  
  
"The blood tests on Esperanza Cortes revealed   
that she possessed the same copper abnormalities   
as her brother. It was likely a heritable trait,   
a mutation created within their father's gene   
sequence, which was then passed down to his   
children."  
  
Assistant Director Kersh looked up from the   
report he was thumbing through and   
stared straight into Scully's eyes. His   
circular glasses gave him an air of constipated   
importance, fiendishly intelligent and   
dangerously cold-hearted.  
  
"And?"  
  
Scully shifted uncomfortably in her seat. His   
stare penetrated every core of her being. It   
was like he could see inside her very thoughts.  
  
"And we believe that it was the copper that   
caused the emergence of their…unique abilities."  
  
"Ah, yes," Kersh said, putting his eyes back to   
the documents at his fingers, "The ability to   
survive a raging fire without incurring a single   
burn, the ability to produce elevated oxygen   
levels within their own bodies, the ability to   
produce 'lightning balls' which have the capacity   
to burn victims till all that's left is ashes and   
bone?" Kersh looked up again and closed the   
report with visible disgust. "Agents, do you   
really expect me to believe this…this…paranormal   
nonsense?"  
  
"With all due respect, sir," Mulder interrupted,   
"this 'paranormal nonsense' as you refer to it has   
been substantiated with Agent Scully's medical   
findings. In addition to determining its cause,   
we also brought a serial killer to justice, and   
still managed to find time to investigate Mrs.   
Horst, the supposed fertilizer bomber."  
  
Kersh turned and looked at Mulder. His face was   
still badly scarred from where it had been burned,   
and his Oxford shirt concealed the bandages covering   
his chest and arms.  
  
"Yes you did, Agent Mulder," Kersh responded,   
nodding his head in affirmation, "at the expense   
of the tax payers of America. The next time I send   
you on assignment, I expect that you will follow my   
orders to the letter, or I will have you kicked out   
of here so fast that your ass won't know which way   
is up. Am I making myself clear?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Scully interjected before Mulder had the   
chance to say something that they would both regret.  
  
"Good day, Agents."  
  
Mulder gave Kersh a final glare of incomprehensibility,   
then stood up and followed Scully out of his office.   
When they were out of earshot, Mulder leaned over to   
her and whispered, "That guy really puts the ass in   
Assistant Director, doesn't he, Scully?"  
  
Scully chuckled as they boarded the elevator and   
punched in the basement button.   
  
"So, you never did tell me how you arrived at the   
hospital so quickly," Mulder said as the doors closed   
in front of them, "What happened? How did you know   
that he would show up?"  
  
"After I hung up with you, I kept thinking about our   
conversation. I replayed it over and over in my   
mind. I just had this nagging feeling. Then I   
remembered what the nurse said, 'I need to change   
your sheets.' I realized that it would be impossible   
for one nurse to change the sheets of a patient   
bedridden with burns over more than half of his body.   
I had the police dispatched right away. I arrived   
soon after."  
  
Mulder smiled, impressed at her prowess.  
  
"Well," he said, "I guess I must be the luckiest   
guy in the Bureau."  
  
"Why's that?" Scully asked as the doors opened,   
leading to their familiar bargain-basement office.  
  
"Because I have you as a partner, Scully."  
  
Scully returned the smile as he pulled out his   
keys and unlocked the door.  
  
"Mulder," she said, "was that I compliment?"  
  
"Yeah," he continued, "there's nothing better than   
having a female partner who can't stop thinking   
about you in bed."  
  
The smile fell from Scully's face.  
  
"And thus is destroyed yet another touching moment."  
  
Mulder grinned as he opened the door, seated   
himself on his chair, and crossed his legs over   
his desk. He pulled out a package of sunflower   
seeds from his pocket and popped a few in his   
mouth.  
  
"Mulder," Scully said, seating herself in her   
chair opposite his desk and putting her briefcase   
on the floor, "did you know that sunflower seeds   
contain unusually high levels of copper?"  
  
"Really?" he asked, taking the bag once again   
from his pocket. He looked it over closely,   
squinching his face as he read the ingredients.   
Glancing at Scully, he tossed the bag directly   
into the trashcan.  
  
"Don't want to take any chances."  
  
  
*THE END* 


End file.
